A Progress to Kent
by EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: Six years after her departure from the Court, Anne Stamford of Pembrokeshire and Kent - former Queen of England - lives a quiet retirement in the great house of Leeds Castle with her beloved husband, William. While things are - mostly - politically quiet, Elizabeth is keen to accept an invitation to go on progress to her mother's house. But where she goes - does trouble follow?
1. At Home with the Kents

**A/N:** Welcome to a new story! I couldn't entirely leave the world of _That Subtle Wreath_ behind; and, as people wanted to know more about Anne's life after her departure from Court with William, I am in the process of doing precisely that. I'm afraid this one is not as far along as my previous outpouring, so it won't be a weekly episode like last time; but a recent overcoming of an outbreak of writers' block gives me a sense of confidence that it isn't going to run into the sand mid-way. Hopefully.

As I'll be resuming my previous habit of referring to characters of the nobility by their titles, a quick reminder of who's who:

**Richmond** \- Richard Rich, first Earl of Richmond  
**Wiltshire** \- William Boleyn, third Earl of Wiltshire and son of George and Jane Boleyn  
**Hackney** \- Ralph Sadleir  
**Northumberland** \- John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland  
**Warwick** \- Henry Dudley, son of John Dudley, holds the Earldom of Warwick as a courtesy title. In 'our' universe, he died in the Netherlands in 1577; but as England is not fighting there in this universe, he is still alive.

Having recently visited Leeds Castle, I'm more or less happy with how things are described in the story. The 'Gloriette' section of the house is still set out as it was when Henry visited there, but I've done some fictional rebuilding and re-assigning of accommodation so that the primary action takes place in the larger house rather than the small one that juts out on its own island (the aforementioned gloriette). Ironically, I visited the other sites that are going to be featured in the progress while I was there, so I was able to examine most of them at first hand.

Needless to say, the first order of business is to describe Anne's new life, so I hope you enjoy this first chapter. Matters will transfer to the Palace for a while before we arrive at Leeds again - but I'll try to add a few vignettes on the way!

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

_At Home with the Kents_

**Leeds Castle - Autumn 1561**

The sun is not yet up, but nonetheless there is busy activity that speaks of a house in the throes of rising to greet a new day. Chamberers are making their way through the parlours, halls and smaller chambers, stirring the banked fires back to life, unfastening the shutters and continuing their endless combat against the accumulation of dust. Elsewhere, the veritable mountains of bread that shall feed the house for the day have been baked, while the cooks are engaged in the production of victuals for the army of officers, maids, gardeners and grooms who shall return to their work once their fast is broken.

In spite of their care to be quiet, their industry is hardly silent, and the sound of footsteps on wooden floorboards in the corridors below have woken the lady of the house. Not that she sleeps easily, not while she is alone in her magnificently canopied tester bed.

There was a time when she welcomed her husband for the sole purpose of procreation - for it was not considered proper for a King to share his bed with his consort. A royal palace is full of magnificent beds, after all; and Henry's preference was to keep his for the other women who took his fancy - the ones he bedded for pleasure, rather than duty.

Shaking herself, Anne dismisses that long-dead shade and stretches luxuriously. Today, her husband shall return from his business in Pembroke, and she shall enjoy the pleasure of supping in his company for the first time in twelve weeks.

William: almost without thinking about it, her face creases into a warm smile. Quiet, intelligent and with a kindly manner that even now fills her heart with joy. He had emerged almost from nowhere - England's ambassador to Sweden, then councillor, then friend - and, these six years past, her husband. Even now she cannot fathom how it was that he stole into her heart as he did; but that first sense of friendship that matured into love is a daily reminder to her that it is never too late to find the one to whom was meant to be married.

"Alice?"

Slowly, the bundled form in the truckle at the end of her bed stirs as her maidservant wakes, "My Lady? Is all well with you?"

"Most well, my dear Alice; forgive me, I have woken early and I am not minded to go back to sleep."

The blankets toss about slightly as Alice hurries from the truckle, "Forgive me, my Lady; I shall see to your toilette at once."

"There is no need to be contrite - it is I who have inconvenienced you. I shall see to my morning devotions while hot water is brought up."

"Thank you, my Lady."

With Alice's assistance, she emerges from the bed and crosses to kneel at her _prie dieu_. She has never begun the day without communing with the Lord, no matter what her views on the matter of religion. As He has seen fit to bless her with a magnificent daughter, two fine grandsons and a husband who cherishes each day that she is with him, it is easy to express her joy in worship - for God has brought her that joy.

Oh, there have been storms - she smiles inwardly even as she crosses herself - a woman of such temper as hers could hardly be expected to subject herself to those ancient conjugal obligations to keep silent as a good wife should. She was once a crowned queen, albeit a consort, and all deferred to her; even if they did not like to do so. William was not fool enough to believe that he could command her as Henry did, but even so he expected to be the Master of the house, and it has been a journey of discovery for them both as they sought common ground in their marriage.

_Holy Father, I give thanks to You for my safety, my joy and my happiness. But for You, I think I should know nothing of this, and I look to You as my haven. I ask for your blessings upon my dear daughter, and entreat You to grant her Your wisdom and aid as she rules this great realm. Also for my daughter's dear husband, Philip, and for her fine children, Edward and young Henry who even now bring their mother joy._

_Further, I ask for Your love and blessings upon the people over whom Elizabeth rules, grant them peaceful lives, honest labour and a bountiful table. Finally, I ask for your blessings upon her Majesty's council, that they shall provide England with the best of their service._

As she emerges from her prayer, she can hear footsteps behind her as Alice supervises the arrival of hot water for her ablutions. Rising, she catches the light scent of rose in the water, and sets to work upon the altogether more prolonged business of preparing herself for public display. The days of her youth are long gone; but nonetheless the magnificence that captured the attention of the men of Henry's Court remains in her dark, depthless eyes.

The requirements of fashion oblige her to submit to the ministrations of two additional dressers as Alice prepares her cosmetics. While her garments are hardly the objects of royal _richesse_ that once adorned her, she is a Countess, and - consequently - must dress the part.

Today's ensemble is one of her favourites, a kirtle of ivory silk, lightly embroidered with lovers' knots and seed pearls, over which is set a fine overgown of russet red. While she does not subscribe to that ghastly fashion for ruffs, so prevalent at Court these days, the collar is enclosed about her neck, partly to show off its slenderness, partly to conceal the age that it betrays. Her hair, grey nowadays, is carefully teased and curled into a neat style that sits tidily under a lace coif topped with a velvet bonnet that matches the overgown's hue. In the absence of that departed youth, ornamentation shall suffice.

Decorated to her satisfaction, Anne leaves her bedchamber to the maids and makes her way downstairs to the chamber that William reserves for managing the great house. Given the size of the place - Leeds Castle is hardly a hovel - the operation of the estate is granted to other hands, and the Comptroller of the house, Thomas Seton, is already settled at his desk, making his way through another great stack of papers.

She watches him awhile, as he works away in ignorance of her scrutiny. With his heavy, dark robes and scholar's cap, maturely jowled chin and thick eyeglasses, she reminds him of another Thomas, long gone, whose loss she still finds hard to accept.

Tens of years have passed since those dark days when her own future seemed so bleak. In spite of her own intelligence and political skill, she could never have survived the loss of the King's love; not without allies. How strange that her most valued ally had been the very man set to end her marriage and remove her from Henry's Court.

Again, her lips curl into a warm smile, "Always at your desk Mr Seton."

He looks up, quizzically, "Your Grace?"

Her smile widens, "Forgive me, I jest. Have you broken your fast?"

Seton returns her smile, and indicates a pewter plate piled with thick chunks of bread drenched in butter, "This shall accompany my industry for a considerable time, your Grace; the schedules for hired hands to undertake the planting of your estates is always something of a challenge."

"And so you work here." She agrees. He has his own office in the gloriette, but prefers to hide here when the papers are piled particularly high.

He nods, "Here, I am safe from the importuning of the clerks over matters that they are perfectly capable of managing for themselves." There is a twinkle in his eye. She appreciates his humour. She appreciated that other Thomas's humour, too, "The cook asked me to seek your approval of his choices for tonight's supper. He seems most intent upon providing the finest of victuals for his Grace's return."

He nods to himself as her smile widens at the mention of her husband. Are other wives tired of their men after six years of wedded union? Her first marriage did not last long enough for her to find out, "Then I shall send for him - though I think I shall break my own fast before I do so."

"Yes, your Grace."

* * *

The entourage is not large - but sufficient for a man of the higher nobility. William Stamford, Earl of Kent and Pembrokeshire, has never been intent upon self-promotion and has selected a train that others of his station would consider to be woefully lacking in its display of power and wealth.

Previous journeys to Pembrokeshire have been undertaken as a couple, but with the expansion of their estates and holdings, the need for each of them to oversee the work of the agents in Kent and in Wales has required him to depart without her for the first time in the entirety of their married life together.

His hair is grey these days - much like hers - but he carries his age remarkably well. Perhaps it is his love for his wife that has preserved him. A foolish pretence - but one in which he enjoys indulging.

They approach from the Maidstone road, a column of thirty men and horse, and clatter alongside the great moat that surrounds his home. Set on two islands - guarded at the landward end by a great barbican, Leeds Castle was built for Eleanor of Castile, and housed the first Edward of England in a grand gloriette that even now juts out from the larger of the two islands.

His home - the grand house that he shares with his beloved wife - was another Kingly gift to his beloved, constructed by the eighth Henry for his Queen Katherine. The grand hall still retains the features he had installed - though the portrait of the late King has been consigned to a lesser chamber, as Anne has no wish to sup in a hall overseen by a man who would have done all he could to remove her from his Court had his efforts not been curtailed by his death.

Anne rarely speaks of her imperious former husband, though he does not require her silence upon the matter. Instead, she seems intent upon creating a world of new memories; memories of a joyful marriage with a man who values her for who she is, rather than the serviceable nature of her womb. There shall be no children from her now, for her days of childbearing are over; but he is content to accept his lack of an heir - for his family is hardly lacking for children. Already, they have agreed that the lands and titles shall be inherited by his eldest nephew, a fine young man by the name of Edmund who has recently completed his education at the King's college of Christ Church in Oxford.

His time in Pembroke has been worthwhile: settling disputes between tenants and his agents, seeing to the dispensation of grants to those in need and checking the accounts of the estate. The comptroller of the Pembroke estates, an efficient - but kindly - Welshman with a thick accent and jolly smile, has proved to be excellently trustworthy, and the earnings of their lands in Wales have been excellent. Indeed, they have been so good that the land rents have not been raised in the entire time that he has owned them.

He can hear the clattering of the windlasses and the grinding of the millstones as he passes under the great gatehouse of the barbican, where the mill works night and day to provide sufficient flour for their bread. Crossing the bridge into the Castle proper, he pauses to greet the Porter, who bows hastily and waves them on. The men-at-arms, however, remain in the barbican, allowing the Earl and his immediate men to proceed.

Beyond, the wide open space of the inner ward has been opened up into a bowling green and well tended parterre beds bobbing with late autumn marigolds. The roses have been dead-headed and cut back for the coming winter. Not that it matters - the colours of the gown worn by his waiting wife, standing at the gatehouse of their grand manor, more than compensate for the lack of it in the beds.

"Welcome home, William." She smiles.

"Thank you, Anne." He answers, "I am right glad to be back; Rhydian is a pleasant supper companion for his conversation, but not for his countenance. I have missed you most heartily."

God - such stilted words. The sooner they are within the house, and apart from the scrutiny of servants and companions, the better. Just as well no one reads the letters that they exchange when they are apart; those words are _hardly_ stilted. Certainly there are multitude of warmer words awaiting him once they are inside - he can almost see them, pent up in the depth of her dark eyes as she watches him dismount and approach.

Anne holds out her hand to him, "Come, my Lord. Brakefield has supervised the preparation a bath for you; which is just as well," She wrinkles her nose, "For you most assuredly require one."

He laughs, "I have spent nigh-on two weeks in the saddle - no matter that the roads are better than they were before you were Queen Regent - thus it is no wonder that I reek of horse."

"Then I shall refrain from granting you a kiss. For I have no wish to kiss a horse."

"And I shall make haste with my bath."

They sup together in one of the larger parlours; a supper of the best venison, well hung in their game cellars. For all his bad temper and unpleasant manner, the cook is most assuredly a master of his craft, and the sauce in which the venison sits is magnificent.

With no one to observe them, their conversation is warm and lively, sharing the news of their doings while apart, though there is one topic that he is yet to raise, for he can see the mourning ring upon Anne's finger. While she is not obliged to wear mourning weeds, there is no disguising her grief - and he reaches across to hold her hand as she stabs at an artichoke with the point of her knife.

"Forgive me." She sighs, "I did not mean to dampen your mood."

"You are grieving, Anne." He answers, "There is no need to pretend that you are joyful just to please me."

"It is year-on a year, William." She sighs, "I should not still be so bowed by it."

"He was your brother, Anne." William reminds her, "Jane was one of your dearest friends who stood at your side when all seemed dark. Why should you not still be bowed by it? I mourned my wife for near-on ten years."

Her glorious eyes fill with tears, and William shifts his chair to sit alongside her, "Here, rest your head upon my shoulder my beloved. Do not fear to shed tears, for even though God has granted them rest and a place at His Table, it is not a simple matter to be joyful for them when you should rather that they were still seated at yours."

"Forgive me, my lord," she weeps, "I thought to welcome you home with joy, not tears."

"You cannot be less than you are, Anne." He reminds her, "Your heart is filled with love - and many have known its caress. I have your heart, yes - but that does not mean that your love cannot be granted to others, or that you are forbidden to feel the sting of its loss."

Their victuals abandoned, they huddle together like storm-wracked birds. After five years of happily married life, sharing it now and again with George and Jane of Wiltshire at their grand manor of Beaulieu, the loss of Jane had been hard enough; but to see George waste away in sadness and despair at her death had been a cruel process to watch. So much so, that it seemed to them both that his passing had been a merciful relief.

There is still a little light left, and William guides her out into the gardens where the air is cool and the scents of the herb gardens welcoming. She no longer sheds tears, and looks up at him from her comfortable closeness to his side, "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my Anne. They served England well, and I was privileged to know them. Their love for you was strong; there is no shame in mourning their loss."

She smiles at him, then looks out across the wide expanse of the inner ward, "If I know a fraction of the love that they shared, then I am happy."

"_More_ than a fraction, I hope, my beloved."

"In which case, perhaps I may use that which was once my motto."

"Ah yes." He smiles at her, "_Most_ happy."

She laughs lightly as he leans down to claim a kiss.

* * *

There is no maid in a truckle at the foot of the bed this morning; not now that her husband is home to share its warmth with her. Instead, Anne wakes to feel the pressure of another body beside hers and turns her head to look upon him. In spite of his grey hair, he retains that gentle handsomeness that delights her, and she settles upon her side to watch him wake.

Once risen, they break their fast together in their dining parlour; a simple array of cold cuts, bread and small ale. Their conversation is light and of little consequence, as they shall spend the rest of the morning with Seton as he collates the papers that William has delivered from Pembrokeshire.

The offices occupied by the estate clerks are in what was once a grand palace, abandoned upon the construction of a grander one. Situated across a magnificent covered bridge, Eleanor of Castile's Gloriette serves an altogether more prosaic function than it did when the first Edward claimed it as his favourite home. Those who work within those walls are industrious, and it is their work that has ensured the ongoing prosperity of the two enormous earldoms that keep them in such grand estate.

Seton is pleased to see the large coffer that contains the papers from the Pembroke agents, "I take it Rhydian has kept his staff in order?"

"Naturally." William smiles, cheerfully, "For, while he speaks twenty words for every one of mine, there is much sense to be found in them. The agents are well disciplined - not a single one of them has yet been beaten senseless by enraged tenants - and the degree of corruption is surprisingly low for men in their position."

Anne utters a small snort of laughter, causing the two men to look at her in surprise, "Forgive me, gentlemen." She smiles at them, "Your words reminded me of another time, and a certain Court official of my acquaintance."

Seton nods, then fetches a flagon of rhenish wine, "Shall we begin? There is much to be considered in these papers - and, while I have no doubt that they shall be in excellent order, I suspect we shall not emerge from them until dinner is served."

He is right. The papers are indeed extensive and in proper order; and the consideration of them is completed with a scant quarter hour remaining before dinner is to be served. Given the temperament of their cook, it is better to abandon the papers than be exposed to a princely tantrum.

"Perhaps it may be possible to reduce the rents this year?" Anne suggests, as they dine upon a magnificently roasted and spiced carp in deference to the Friday fast, "The profits of our estates are singularly excellent - it would seem to me that we should be most ungenerous to share that good fortune with those whose industry has created it."

William smiles at her, "In addition to your endowments, of course."

"I lived a profligate, wasteful life when I was Queen of England, my lord; even now, I am shocked at the expense of my household. How can it be that I required more than two hundred servants to see to my needs in one set of apartments, when I have only a hundred more to run two great estates? I have seen misery that I never imagined could be real in a Christian realm - and indifference amongst noblemen that shocked me. It seemed that charity was a requirement only when one was sick to the point of dying, or at the end of one's life in hopes of purchasing a shorter time in purgatory."

"You are in a reflective mood this day, my Anne."

She looks up from her plate, "Forgive me, William. Perhaps we should ride out in the park this afternoon? I have ever found that a hard ride banishes a poor mood."

"Then we shall do so."

The stables are located alongside the large lake across from the moat, recently rebuilt to house a magnificent train of horses, alongside the wagons and sleds that are used for baggage and freight, and a heavy litter decorated with tooled leather and brass fittings. Their newest acquisition is a solid carriage, imported from France. Now that the roads are altogether more passable, the use of a lighter wheeled vehicle is practical in a way that it could never have been when Englishmen were obliged to traverse the country along muddy tracks, and she finds it an excellent means of transportation when a journey is long enough to make riding a tiresome prospect.

Their stablemaster, Martin, is awaiting them, "My Lord, my Lady; the grooms have prepared your mounts. Old Griff asked me to warn you that the weather looks set to turn later today; his leg is paining him again."

"Ah yes, old Griff's miraculous weather-warning leg." William laughs, "Thank you, Martin: we shall bear that in mind."

They stop at the kennels, where the latest litter of hunting hounds that William has taken to breeding are puttering about, watched over by their dam. Fleet of foot, and strong in wind and limb, the hounds of the Kents are considered to be excellent to lead the chase, and not a few of them are housed on other estates across the south of England. Even a few French noblemen have made enquiries, though the litter in the whelping box today are promised to the Queen. Elizabeth has certainly inherited her parents' love of _la chasse._

While she retains a fine chestnut palfrey for more ceremonial activities, Anne's preference for riding out in the park is a dark bay gelding of considerable height; rather appropriately named Goliath. William's chestnut is taller - though only just - but the two horses easily match one another pace for pace, giving their riders the pleasure of a breakneck gallop across the parkland of their estate without the fear of either being left behind.

In her younger days, of course, she would spend an entire day in the saddle, racing her King - though careful to ensure that he was the one left behind only rarely - pausing to enjoy sumptuous meals under an awning and then racing onwards. Nowadays, however, she accepts the requirement to defer to her ageing limbs, and the rides are far shorter; not that they have abandoned the meals under an awning when the summer is high.

Today, the wide sweep of the park is tinged with copper and gold as autumn widens its grip upon the land. She loves to ride at this time of the year, surrounded by the last vestige of beauty before the trees give up their leaves for the winter. The horses thunder across the grass, mown short by the deer and flocks of freshly shorn sheep whose wool is another source of income for their coffers. In the distance, two stags are intent upon one another in the throes of the rut, antlers locked together as they compete for the right to mount the does and bring their progeny into the world.

They pull up near a copse where they have spent many a pleasant hour in warm sunshine, sharing a flagon of mead, or ale, and a light meal. Dismounting, William fetches a rolled felt blanket and sets it upon the grass in the shelter of a fallen tree trunk, then retrieves a leather bottle and two cups from his saddlebag. He looks up at the sky as Anne joins him, "Not too long, I think, my love. Griff's leg speaks truthfully today."

"I have never known it to be wrong." She agrees, seating herself and taking a cup of wine.

"Has Elizabeth written in my absence?" He asks, sitting beside her.

"Frequently." Anne smiles, "All is well at Court, though she imposed a period of morning for the Wiltshires that has only recently ended. She was most fond of George - not merely as an uncle. For all his foolishness, he was an excellent councillor."

"I suspect much of that foolishness was merely in jest, my love." William smiles, "In my time as a councillor, I found him to be most intelligent and quick-minded. In the company of the late Lord Essex and Lord Richmond, he was one of a bastion of political strength that none could breach."

"Indeed so - I found their counsel invaluable, as did Elizabeth." She sighs, "How strange it is that only Lord Richmond remains. I am told that my daughter has forbidden him to die, for he is the last of her first council, and she is loath to lose him."

"It is the way of all things to change."

"True - but nonetheless it is hard to embrace it."

He leans back against the tree, allowing her to nestle into his arms, and they sip their wine in companionable silence. She has memories of doing this with two Henrys, the one she wanted to marry, and the one that she did. The distance of years has wiped away her sense of how she felt in those days compared to how she feels now: did she feel that she was truly home? That she was with the one whom God had chosen to be her mate? Does it even matter anymore? They are dead; she lives.

Then a splatter of water impacts upon her nose, and she is startled out of her reverie; Griff was indeed right. Her shriek as the heavens seem to open upon them is half dismayed, half amused, as they hastily scramble to their feet, gather their accoutrements and mount up to race for home.

* * *

The wide halls of their house share the opulence of all of the palaces that Henry built for himself and his first wife: grand tapestries, ornate wainscoting, magnificent paintings courtesy of the finest artists Europe could supply. As she wanders through the corridors between the chambers, Anne marvels - as she always does - at the immensity of talent that was applied to a man's determination to please his wife.

His first wife.

The bruising memories might have been driven away, but the evidence of them remains within the walls of her home. She had once been granted this place as Henry's Queen, though she rarely entered it until the day that William had accompanied her through the front door.

She pauses beside a chamber that she has taken almost to avoiding; having failed to enter it almost from the moment that the portrait was hung there. God above, how can she be so uncomfortable with a painting?

She knows the answer. She has known it from the moment she entered the great hall and saw it there, overlooking the head of the grand table with an imperious glare that, even in the form of layers of paint, drove deep into the core of her heart and filled her with disquiet.

_I always thought that Katherine would be my death, or I hers. How strange that it was Henry of whom I should have thought in such terms._

Anne does not know for certain what Henry would have done to end the marriage that had become so deeply abhorrent to him. Thomas Cromwell had told her, once, that he had been set to work to find a means of doing so; and had spent four days with the same Canon lawyer that had overseen the end of Henry's first marriage building a case. Instead, however, Henry had died and left her fighting for her daughter's crown against a cabal of councillors who would have taken it for their own. Or Mary.

Almost as though a reflex, she scowls. That damned creature - a twice-failed usurper who, as far as she knows now, remains buried in a convent in Cadiz. Perhaps she is dead now - but with convents being as closed as they are, who is to know? God above - even now the benighted rival has the power to grasp her heart, just as Henry does. Why? Neither of them can come against her, or her daughter; and yet still she fears to enter that chamber where Henry's portrait hangs, and wakes in the night after dreams that a messenger has come with news that Mary has launched another fleet against her.

Steeling herself, Anne grasps the latch of the door and enters the chamber. Signs of its abandonment are clear, and she pauses before the portrait of her late King, a broad shouldered mountain of silks and furs who now presides over a kingdom of bare floors and furniture shrouded in dust sheets.

"I truly believed that I loved you." She says, looking at the portrait - though not into those narrowed eyes, "But now that I am married to William, I know better. What we shared was not love, was it? Ah…I was such a catch in those days, was I not? Though I was naught but the daughter of a Knight, half of the Court wished to make me their mistress, while the other wished to make me their wife, and you were one of them. You could not make me your wife, for you were married already; and you could not induce me to commit a mortal sin. Perhaps some might say that you were willing to wait seven years for the love of me - but if that is so, how is it that you grew to despise me so quickly? In all our time together, William has never ceased to love me, and in the mirror of his eyes I see what love can truly be."

Then, finally, she finds the courage to look into the portrait's cold, dead eyes, "It is time to end this foolishness. I wish to put this chamber back into use, and there is no place in it for you any longer. This is _my_ home now, not yours, and I shall claim it. Goodbye, Henry. Your days of haunting my memories must end - and they shall end today. Perhaps there shall be someone, someday, who shall value this portrait: so I intend to place it in one of the attics, though a part of me strongly desires to set it upon a bonfire."

Anne turns and looks out of the door, pleased to see that one of the stewards is passing, "Peter, please could you arrange for the portrait of the late King to be removed from this chamber, well covered, and set in one of the attics; then have the space cleaned and aired. This chamber has an excellent view of the gardens and I should like to use it as a solar in the mornings."

Six years, by God. Six years it has taken her to do something that she could have done from the moment she entered the house. Leaving the chamber to the care of her stewards, she heads on her way with a renewed spring in her step.

* * *

The wainscoting is freshly washed and oiled, the furniture polished and the upholstery brushed well down. A neat, fine woven Turkish rug has been spread upon the scrubbed floorboards in front of the heavy stone fireplace, while a previously forgotten tapestry depicting pastoral scenes hangs upon the wall where once that unnerving portrait was placed, and a bowl of dried, fragrant herbs scents the air.

"I had forgotten how light this room was." William admits as he views Anne's reclaimed solar, "What prompted you to return here?"

"I have allowed the shades of my past to haunt me for too long, my love." She admits, "Even in the first, most precious days of our union, I felt his eyes upon me and the loathing that came from them when he last departed from my sight. To protect my child, I eschewed the attentions of men - and thought myself forever denied the joy of a loving husband. I found myself even wondering whether the life I had known with Henry was naught but a lie, for his love died so quickly. How could he have loved me, only to hate me so?"

He feels her shiver at the thought of Henry's hatred, and enfolds her in his arms, "I cannot vouch for his heart, my Anne; I can vouch only for mine. In all of the years of our life together, I have never felt aught but love for you, and that sense of joy in knowing that you are to share your life with me until God sees fit to part us."

"Joy - even in the face of my temper?" She asks, looking up at him with a slight smile.

"Even then." He chuckles.

"Then I dismiss him from my thoughts henceforth." She says, quietly, "For I love, and am loved, by a better man than he."

Wriggling free of his embrace, she takes his hand and they cross to the window to look out upon the parterre beds beyond, "I shall bring my papers in here," She says, "and my lute and songbook."

"But no embroidery." He smiles at her. He knows she finds little pleasure in the pursuit.

"Not a stitch of it."

"And what of that stretch of wall near the window?" he asks, suddenly, "is there anything to be set there?"

"I had not thought of it." Anne admits, "I shall think upon it - it does not offend me to see a spare space. Should I find it offensive, perhaps I shall consider the matter after Christmastide."

"Speaking of Christmastide," William muses, "Is it your wish that we spend the season here, or would you prefer to return to Court?"

She pauses, thinking it over, "I should delight in seeing Elizabeth again, my Love." She admits, "But, I think I am not ready for the scrutiny of the Court."

"You have not been ready for such scrutiny since we departed from Hampton Court."

"I find it preferable to entertain her here."

"For there are no ill memories of past times?"

Anne nods.

"In which case, if it is your wish to celebrate the birth of Christ here, we shall do so - and we shall ensure that their Majesties are welcomed here upon progress in the Summer. I think it highly unlikely that she would decline an invitation to do so."

"Indeed she would not. On the contrary, I think it likely that she shall request to come here if we do not invite her; she has not visited for three years thanks to requirements to progress to the North." Anne turns to William and smiles, "And the first letter that I shall write at that writing desk shall be the invitation."


	2. Returning to Colours

**A/N:** Thank you everyone for the reviews, follows and favourites - all of which are very much appreciated! I know this one's taking a fair bit longer to come out of the drawer, but here's chapter two. We must move from Kent to London - where the Court is in residence and looking forward to Christmas...

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

_Returning to Colours_

**The Palace of Placentia - Christmastide, 1561**

Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, Ireland and France, looks at herself in the polished steel of her mirror and frowns, "Anna, does this ruby _truly_ match my overgown?"

Such a trivial question; but when does she ever have the opportunity to be trivial? Her entire morning has been spent in the council chamber, where the questions have been anything other than trivial: treaties with the Scots and the French, more grumblings from Spain…so much to consider that it is quite a relief to speak of matters of so little note.

Some months have passed since she last wore colours; rather longer than strictly necessary for mourning, admittedly, but the double loss of her Aunt Jane and Uncle George struck her rather more than she thought it might.

Two days ago, however, she decreed that the court's mourning would end today, and certainly her Councillors had largely adopted colours again this morning. Now she shall step into the presence chamber in her favourite russet red, and life shall go on.

She turns at the sound of a knock upon the door, and Anna confers with the steward outside, "Majesty, his Majesty is without."

Elizabeth's mouth creases into a smile, "I shall be with him anon; quickly, my scent."

The last of her toilette completed, she emerges into her privy chamber to greet her husband. Philip, Consort of England and Duke of Wessex, smiles at her, "Perfection as always, my most precious Majesty."

He speaks to her in his native Portuguese, as they always use his tongue when they speak privately. None of her ladies are versed in the language, and thus they are free to talk as they wish.

"It is my duty to England, Filipe." She returns his smile, "I am her crowning jewel, and thus I must sparkle more vividly than the brightest of diamonds." Then the smile falters, "A jewel that has lost so much of its firm setting."

He draws her into an embrace, "Nay, my beloved. Do not think them gone - for God has welcomed them to his table - and I have faith that even now, our lost Lord Wiltshire is seated at his table, already sharing a finger of heavenly wine with Lord Essex. They are amongst the angels now, and the saints - and look upon us with paternal pride even as the Heavenly Father does so."

Elizabeth dabs at her eyes with a kerchief, "Forgive me, Filipe; I am at a loss to understand how it is that my aunt and uncle's passing has grieved me so. I did not require the Court to wear mourning for such a time after the loss of my dear Kat."

"He was a loyal and excellent councillor, Lizzie; and he was as a father to you, while his dear lady was a favoured Lady of your mother's household, and loved you as she did."

"That is so." She agrees, "For I have little memory of my father - and thus I cannot recall ever seeing him so; and yet I think my late uncle resided in my heart as a father in the place of the man who sired me."

"And thus you mourn his loss as though he were the man who sired you."

"Does that seem strange to you?"

"Not particularly. He was a kindly man who loved you deeply. Indeed - he loved all deeply, and thus his despair at his loss of Lady Wiltshire cut him to the deepest of his heart."

"I still have lord Richmond." She says, fondly, "And I have most heartily forbidden him to die. Thus I shall be served loyally and with the voice of experience from long service."

"Indeed, he would not dare to disobey." Philip takes her hand, "Come, my Queen, let us repair to the hall to dine. Your Court has not seen you at the high table for far too long."

They emerge into the presence chamber, and then continue through to the watching chamber, where her highest councillors await her. John Dudley of Northumberland, of course, for he governs the north on behalf of Philip, young William Boleyn of Wiltshire, who has inherited his father's lands and title as its third Earl, and the old guard of them all, Richard Rich of Richmond, who now leans on two sticks as another grand councillor once did. In the absence of her great political triumvirate of Cromwell, Rich and Boleyn, now there is another.

"My Lord of Richmond." She smiles, kissing him on the cheek, "You look most well."

"Thank you, Majesty." Unlike everyone else he wears black, his white hair crowned by a scholar's cap. The image of the late lord Cromwell - even after six years still remembered, "It is good to see you returned to the embrace of the Court."

The royal couple lead the councillors into the Hall accompanied by the bray of trumpets and the thunder of kettledrums. The walls are decorated with boughs of pine and fir, while great swags of silver tinsel, scarlet satin and green braids are hung between the vault shafts. There is another day yet until the Christmastide feast; but after a considerable period of drab and mourning, Elizabeth is keen to restore life to a Court muted by grief. The Wiltshires would have required nothing less.

Richmond sits to her right, as her Lord Chancellor, with Matthew Parker, who has replaced the retired Thomas Cranmer as Archbishop of Canterbury, while Philip sits to her left with Northumberland at his side and the third Earl of Wiltshire beyond. As the first remove is fanfared in, she sighs inwardly; perhaps she should have invited the Kents; but the letter that she received from her mother is sufficient to bring a smile to her face.

_My beloved daughter and most noble Queen,_

_I write to you to wish you the best compliments of the season, and to send you gifts to celebrate the birth of the Christ child with my joy and blessing. While obligations upon our Estates preclude our return to Court for Christmastide, we have undertaken considerable works in the Gloriette and House, which I am most eager to offer to you as accommodation for your summer progress in the coming year._

_We look forward to welcoming you to our home, and would be pleased to greet all whom you choose to accompany you, and we have excellent stocks of deer in the parkland, while the latest litter of our hounds shall be full grown by the summer, and await you to try at the hunt._

_I pray that God's blessing shall be upon you, and upon his Grace, Philip. Also upon dear young Edward and Harry._

_I look forward to the summer - and to your arrival._

_Your loving mother._

So much nicer than inviting herself.

The musicians in the gallery above them play a merry song of the season, the notes trickling down over the heads of the gathered throng as they winnow their way through a celebratory mountain of victuals. The extravagance of her father's court has not been repeated in hers, but there are times - and this is one such time - when it is a pleasure to spend to excess. Manchet loaves in profusion, sides of beef, saddles and haunches of venison, geese and ducks in flocks upon even the lowest of the tables below the salt where the lowliest of the courtiers dine. This afternoon shall be spent at the tiltyard, where the young bloods of the court compete for favours from the ladies in a display of chivalry from another age. All work shall cease from tomorrow until twelfth night, and there shall be feasting, dancing and joy to celebrate the season.

In between masses, of course.

Elizabeth may not require the number of masses that the first Queen did, but she expects religious observance throughout the holiday; hence the presence of Parker. His quiet refusal to involve himself in Court politics ensures that he is rarely present, and she wishes to discuss matters spiritual with him before he returns to his palace. Thus he shall celebrate the masses for the season, and she shall speak with him once the holiday is at an end.

The mass of the Court rises from the tables as the feast draws to a close, moving to another chamber to sample the banquet course while the victuals are voided by the servants. The joust is to be followed by a masque in the early evening while the Court sups - though she and Philip shall do so in private with just a few of her closest courtiers. She has fond memories of the evenings when her mother did so, and played chess with her Lord Chancellor. She would do likewise, but her Lord Chancellor has no liking for chess, so instead the game is primero or triumphs.

"You are welcome to join us for supper tonight, gentlemen." She smiles as Dudley, Wiltshire and Richmond bow.

"Forgive me, Majesty," Richmond says, "I feel it would be wise for me to seek some rest between the joust and tonight's mass. While I am grateful to be granted a chair in the face of my infirmity, I fear that I might disturb our celebrations should I fall asleep in it while his Grace of Canterbury gives his homily."

She takes his hand and smiles, "Then I shall ensure that some good victuals are sent to your quarters for your refreshment this evening once you are rested, my Lord."

"Thank you, Majesty." He bows again, "Nay, John; get yourself to the tiltyard, there is no need to escort me to my chambers. Enjoy the madness of our young bloods."

Northumberland nods and smiles at him, "As you will, Richard. Rest well - we shall see you anon."

The tiltyard is, as is always so when a tourney takes place, a riot of flapping banners and pennons. In the absence of war to test their mettle, the younger men of the Court are eager to face on another in the lists, and thus the number of participants is considerable. In a court presided over by a young Queen, there are plenty of young women present to offer their favours to the competitors, indulging in the foolish charms of Courtly Love, play-acting at chivalry even as its principles are slowly being buried into the pages of childish romances. A lance is, of course, of little use against a mortar.

Henry Dudley, the first son of Northumberland and earl of Warwick, slowly rides his horse down the lists and draws to a halt before the stand where Elizabeth is arriving with Philip. He is not to joust today, as his last tourney left him with a broken rib that has not yet healed, and thus he has appointed himself the Master of the Lists.

The first competition is intended to whittle down the number of mounted knights to a more suitable group to undertake the joust proper, and all are required to tilt at a quintain with an arm upon which is attached a thin bladder filled with white render. Those who strike the quintain, but are struck by the bladder and drenched with render, shall be disqualified from further competition, as shall be those who miss. Given the quality of the riders, that should still leave a decent field to compete.

It is a delightful spectacle of thundering hooves, men braced in the saddle, their lances steady…only to strike the quintain _just_ wrongly, and find themselves splattered with white render. None miss the target, but unless they hit the centre of the board, it is almost inevitable that the bladder shall swing about, and catch them as they pass. As each competitor makes his run, the accumulated audience cheers, or groans, or laughs at the outcome.

After three-quarters of an hour, the field has been reduced to eight, most of them young men at the first stages of their court careers. One of the number, older than the others, is one of Northumberland's sons; what was his name again? Ah yes, _Robert_. One of his brothers, Ambrose, was clipped by the bladder when he took his turn, though it failed to break, saving him from a dousing.

Rising from her seat as the eight mounted men sit aside their destriers before her, Elizabeth removes a fine, gold scarf from about her slender neck, "Gentlemen! Here is my token - to be granted to the winner amongst you this day and worn at tomorrow's feast!"

She laughs at the wave of cheers that breaks across the benches. All of the competitors are young, talented and keen to make their mark. It shall be interesting to see which of them shall win. Returning to her seat, she smiles as Philip takes her hand, "That younger Dudley seems most keen to find his way at court, my love."

"Indeed he does. I am given to understand that he is a peerless horseman. I am minded to make him my Master of Horse if that is so. Perhaps we shall see some measure of his prowess in the lists, in which case, I shall think upon it after Christmastide."

By the end of the afternoon, that prowess has been displayed to its fullest, granting him the golden scarf, and Elizabeth smiles at her husband, "Yes. I shall indeed think upon it after Christmastide."

* * *

The chamber, unlike the tiltyard, is almost completely silent but for the soft ticking of a small, very expensive, clock, and the slightly wheezy breaths of the occupant as he sits in a chair and quietly broods.

Christmastide was always Lisbet's favourite time; a time when she supervised the decoration of their Hall, and the assembly of a grand feast for his enormous family alongside the dispensation of largesse to the poor of the parishes under their ownership. She was always so careful and intent upon that most vital of Christian duties - even in the days when his greed and avarice controlled all that he did.

How could she have loved him in those days? Perhaps she did not - theirs was a marriage arranged as much as any other might have been - but she had given him a great brood of children, and heirs to inherit the lands that he has accumulated over long years of service at Court. His only comfort as he turns her wedding ring over in his fingers is the knowledge that he was at her side when she passed.

_I am all that remains_.

For a while, he loses himself in memories of those years when he looked to a man he despised to keep his head upon his shoulders. A man who became a dear friend and ally as they fought to ensure that Elizabeth kept the crown that her father had willed to her. He had been a despicable man in those days, of course; motivated by ambition and utterly without scruples - until others with the same motivations looked upon him as little more than a commodity to be used and discarded once he had ceased to be of value.

After Thomas Cromwell's passing, there had still been George Wiltshire; intelligent, witty and incisive as he matured into his political role. And now he, too, is gone.

He has not returned to his family seat this Christmastide; choosing instead to dispatch gifts and letters to his daughters and younger sons. But not to his eldest; no - not after overhearing that unguarded conversation two summers ago while he was tending to the business of his estates.

_I have seen the will, Julius! He has left bequests to my brothers - from _my_ inheritance! God's blood, when that old man is dead and all is mine, that shall be overturned, I assure you!_

The other, one of his friends, remarked that the 'old man' still lived, and was of sound mind_._

_And I seek each day for the news that he is dead! I have naught but the courtesy of his Barony, naught but that which he seeks to give me! God, I hate him for his longevity, and await the day that his doddering old corpse is stilled forever!_

He should not blame the man; after all, was he not the same with his own father? Even though he had no inheritance, he wished for his father to die, and then for his brother to do likewise - and without issue - thereby leaving him with what little inheritance his family retained. That vileness remained with him even as his court career began - and did not leave him until he discovered the price of it. Perhaps it was inevitable that such a bad apple would not fall that far from so diseased a tree.

But to know that his own son hates him…

"Lisbet," he whispers, "Forgive me - I beg of you; for I did not cleanse my tainted soul until it was too late to keep Robert's free from its stain. Perhaps, however, he is right to desire my passing - for I have lost all that gave me joy. All but the kindness of a young woman who thinks me to be her wisest adviser. I am tired, Lisbet. So very tired; and yet still God does not grant me rest…"

He wants to go - to be with her again at the Lord's table. There is no one left now but him - no one but an heir who longs for his death, and a multitude of regrets.

Overwhelmed, Richmond bows his head, and weeps.

* * *

The strains of a pavane echo about the hall, accompanied by the aromas of the recently voided feast to celebrate twelfth night. The slow pace of the steps enables Elizabeth to be led in the dance by her elderly Lord Chancellor, whose subdued mood has not gone unnoticed.

She chooses to speak of light matters, rather than state affairs: that can be reserved for the morrow. The rumours of his travails with his ungrateful heir have echoed even in her privy chamber, and the cruel amusement at his expense has come close to rousing her temper on more than one occasion. His former acts against other courtiers have not been forgotten, it seems; and not even years of diligent service and royal favour have overcome them.

God's wounds, even now some look upon them with near-disbelief that she would lower herself to grant favour to one such as Richmond. Such is the price of politics - they looked upon the late Lord Essex in much the same fashion - but nonetheless it grieves her to see their ire for a man who has done naught but win her trust.

"Their graces of Kent and Pembroke have invited us to progress to Leeds Castle in the summer, my Lord. I trust that you shall attend with the royal party?"

For the first time that evening, he smiles, "I should be most pleased to, Majesty. It has been too long since their Graces were at Court, and I miss the pleasure of a game of cards with Lord Stamford. If it be your wish, I shall speak to my Lord of Hackney to commence preparations over the coming spring."

"Excellent." She knows well that the most effective means of improving Richmond's temperament is to give him work to do. Their conversation moves back to matters pertaining to the forthcoming visit of her sons, who have spent the season in their own households, as it is her firm intention that their return shall be permanent. As the dance ends, and Richmond bows to her, his smile broadens, "And the scandal shall cause the sky to fall in."

She smiles back, "Then I shall ensure that we build a new sky."

"I see his Grace is smiling again." Philip observes as Richmond withdraws from escorting her back to her seat, "I have not seen him smile in many weeks."

"I have set him to work upon our progress to Kent, my beloved." Elizabeth smiles at him, "He has ever been enlivened by a project."

Philip takes her hand, "He is important to you, is he not?"

"He is all that remains of my childhood, Filipe. Perhaps it is childish to wish to keep a hold of that which gave us security and safety when we were young; but I was blessed with excellent advisers when I came into my inheritance, and I am loath to give them up. God may wish to call him home - but I shall fight to keep him for as long as I may. Besides, he is one of the few upon my Council who stands with me in my wish to bring our little ones here. I was permitted to live in my mother's household, and I think it right that my children be granted the same courtesy."

Philip nods, but his smile is muted; some years have passed since they last argued to the degree that they have argued over this intention. It is not fear of convention that concerns him; after all, his own place at court defies convention. No, it is the inevitable miasma exuded by such a concentration of people and the risks thereof that fills him with fear. He remembers well the moment when Edward was first placed into his arms, and that extraordinary sense of wonder and love for his first son. And the same with young Harry. They are not just heirs - they are the fruits of his love for his wife; and to lose them to the unpleasant humours that infest the court? God have mercy.

She knows it. She appreciates it as he does - but she was permitted to spend her youth with her mother for the sole reason that she was the Queen. It was _expected_ that she be at Court. Heirs, on the other hand, are expected to be kept safely away from risk…

He feels her hand grasp his more tightly, and he looks into her eyes, "Forgive me, my Lizzie." He whispers, "It is not a wish to be contrary."

"I understand," She answers, softly, "and I am truly grateful that you have agreed to my wish."

He kisses her on the cheek, "I could not refuse you, my dearest wife and Queen. Besides, they shall be kept safe and well, shall they not? It shall be a pleasure to have them near."

She smiles back at him, "And - all the better - to see the looks upon the faces of those who see our action and are scandalised? I have always loved to frustrate the nobility."

Philip laughs, and she grips his hand tightly, "Mr Sands - a volta, I think!"

There are delighted voices all about as the couples gather, and Philip leads his queen into the dance.

* * *

The men seated around the Council table are a mixture of old hands and new blood. Warwick has been a member for less than a year, and his youth compared to Richmond's age is quite the contrast.

The difference of opinions is also wide at times; but Elizabeth prefers it to be that way in order to gain as broad a gathering of advice as possible before she makes any decision. Sometimes a younger perspective can be precisely the best course to take - and even Richmond appreciates that. The arguments, however, can be most bracing.

John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, rises to his feet, "I have a report from our factors in Spain, Majesty. In spite of all the gold of his holdings in the new world, it would appear that King Philip's coffers are empty once again. His wars have been prohibitively expensive, and his determination to force his subjects in the low countries to subject themselves to the Pope on pain of death is also proving costly. I fear that Cateau-Cambresis was of benefit to none in those lands."

Elizabeth sighs, "Do we have means of providing succour to those who are oppressed?"

Northumberland shakes his head, "Not without antagonising Spain. For all his penury and commitments elsewhere, Philip remains eager to achieve that which your sister failed to do, and claim England for Rome."

"And for himself." Someone snorts, derisively, prompting a ripple of amusement around the table. All know that such an enterprise would fail on the grounds of cost alone. Equally, however, all know that he would refuse to see an invasion in such terms. Of all the crowned heads of Europe, Philip is by far the most set upon his course - and utterly incapable of pragmatism. Should he be provoked, there is no doubting that he would act.

"I have no doubt that he wishes us to provoke him, in order to claim a _casus belli _and send his ships against us." Richmond admits, "Thus it would be madness to do so. England prospers, but primarily because England does not make war. All know it; and thus we show that peace is a better way. It was your Grandfather's way - and he thus left England solvent upon his passing."

"Which my father promptly wasted upon wars." Elizabeth adds, smiling ruefully.

Northumberland returns the smile, "Matters are little different in France, Majesty; though her Majesty the Queen Regent is infinitely more pragmatic in terms of overseas politics, and prefers to keep her religious stubbornness within her own borders."

"She can no more afford to antagonise us than Philip can." Young Wiltshire smiles, "Her wars are just as expensive, and she has no bottomless coffers of gold across the sea to raid. Not if she wishes to have a France for her son to inherit."

"Assuming he does so. Her whelps seem remarkably fragile; almost as much as her wish to remain France's queen is strong."

"You think she would not relinquish power to Charles?" Elizabeth asks, intrigued at such a concept in the face of her own upbringing.

"Eventually, she shall." Richmond observers, "Either she shall die or her ministers shall conspire against her once the boy comes of age. For all our example, it is still the desire that a Kingdom be ruled by a King."

"They are, however, concerned with matters other than England at this time, and thus we may see out the year secure that we are safe from them." She says, quietly, "Are there any other matters that have come about?"

"I have heard rumours, Majesty." Warwick says, looking up from his papers a little shyly, for he has not yet spoken in Council, "Traders who have come from Palermo who put into Cadiz, only to be obliged to flee when it became clear that the town had been struck by sickness. People were fearful and there were many rumours. It appears that all of the mendicants were engaged in healing, but the closed orders had shut up their houses and claimed to serve through praying. It clearly had not served, though, for it was claimed by the pilot who turned the ship away that all of them were dead."

For a moment, many of the Councillors are confused by such a statement as they cannot see how it would be of importance. Elizabeth, however, looks sad, "_All_ of them?"

"I cannot say for certain, Majesty; for it is naught but rumour. But, if so, then yes; it would appear that the former Lady Mary is among them."

"Even if we cannot confirm it, gentlemen, we will act in the belief that it is true. I shall ask Mr Parker to ensure that prayers are said for her soul in the Parishes, in the hope that she has found the peace that was denied her in life."

"That is most forgiving, Majesty." Richmond observes.

"It would be abominably churlish for me to do otherwise, my Lord." Elizabeth reminds him, "For it could be claimed that, as I gained, she lost. How many times was love granted to her, only to be snatched away again? It is no surprise to me that her heart hardened against me into bitterness, and thus I hope that God has washed that bitterness away in the soothing balm of His love. I can afford to be so magnanimous, for as she lost, I gained. I cannot say with certainty that I might not have become as she did, had I been the one who lost as she did. It would be unChristian of me to think otherwise, for God granted me great gifts, did he not?"

Secretary Paget, seated at his small writing desk, scratches away with his quill, noting down the Queen's instruction to ensure that it shall be carried out.

Northumberland continues, "His Majesty, in his capacity as Warden of the North, has received word from the Council of the North regarding the activities of the Scots. Since her return from France, the young Queen has proved well educated and intelligent as any who resided in the French Court could expect to be; but she is woefully ignorant of the politics of her realm, and thus is at odds with her Lords on many matters; though particularly matters of religion. While she is content to look to religious settlement as we have done, she is facing the intransigence of reformers who despise Rome even more violently than those amongst us who call themselves Puritans. She does not have the political experience or acumen to negotiate with them."

"I know of them." Elizabeth adds, "Such is their bigotry that even I fear I could not negotiate with them. I am, after all, one of that 'monstrous regiment' am I not?"

Her council exchange glances. All of them remember her fury when Thomas Randolph sent her a copy of the vile polemic against female monarchs penned by that arch reformer who even now takes it upon himself to lambast the woman on the Scots throne at every opportunity. What was that wretched little man's name? Ah yes; _Knox_. Even though his letter was apologetic and insisted that he opposed the words the pamphlet contained absolutely, it had taken some time for her temper against her ambassador to ease.

"Is it likely that her travails shall impact upon us?" She asks, moving briskly on. There is no reason to tread over old ground yet again.

"At this time? It is unlikely." Northumberland answers, "Scotland is in no position to make war with anyone, and Randolph's negotiations with the Councillors have ensured that we have strong treaties that keep us aloof from any quarrels they might have with the French in the aftermath of her departure."

"It was wise, Majesty, to grant her safe passage through England when she returned from France." Richmond adds, "I suspect that the Queen Regent had hoped that she would be refused, and thus resentment would be sparked between our nations."

"She is a sister Queen. Despite all that the French have done to sow the seeds of discord between us, she has accepted my right to rule, and thus I grant her all due courtesy. Besides," she adds with a wry smile, "she, too, is one of that 'monstrous regiment', and we must stand together if men believe our right to rule to be against the will of God."

Her councillors exchange glances. Perhaps she knows that the only reason that France and Mary of Scotland have accepted her is thanks to her marriage and her heirs. Edward and Henry have made her unassailable in a way that her sex could not. Mary has no children, and thus has nothing to offer other than a more distant relationship to the Tudor line than that of England's queen. Even if those who whisper behind the arras claim that her mother's marriage to the King was false, the presence of sons from her union have drowned out those insistent voices, and she is safer upon her throne now than she ever might have been.

"Are there any other matters of which I should be aware?" Elizabeth prompts, after a period of silence.

"Nothing of immediate concern, Majesty." Richmond answers, "Should that change, however, you shall be informed."

"Thank you, my Lord." She smiles at him, reaching out to squeeze his arm affectionately, "In that case, gentlemen, our meeting is at an end."

Rising, she accepts their bows, and departs from the chamber.

* * *

The horses thunder across the park, sending birds clattering from thickets and small animals fleeing to their dens. Beyond, the hounds are stretching ahead of the riders, in search of a stag to bring down for the game cellars.

It is no surprise that her Majesty is at the very forefront of the pack; she has always been the finest of riders and her new horse has proved to be a mettlesome beast that gallops as fast as any in the stables. Only the companion steed granted to Philip can match him pace for pace, and the two lead the court in the hunt.

Their pace is courtesy of her new Master of the Horse. Young Robert Dudley has proved to be a talented judge of horseflesh, and many of the Court are astride excellent animals sourced from the finest stables of Europe. No one seems to like the man particularly; as his rise to prominence has been accompanied by a rather embarrassing arrogance that has made him distinctly unpopular amongst the more senior courtiers.

It is all youthful pride; a man promoted to a Court office at such a young age is unusual, after all. There is no doubting his talent, of course; he would not be there if he lacked it. Unfortunately, his pride matches that talent; so he shall merit watching to ensure that he does not cause trouble in the future. It does not do for a young man to become too confident in his importance - perhaps Dudley has forgotten another young man who thought himself more important than he was; and paid for that presumption with his head.

There seems to be no quarry out in the parkland this morning, and the riders instead adjourn to a sequence of pavilions set between a stand of beech trees to dine upon game pies and pasties brought out from the kitchens to the wide expanse of Blackheath. A number of the older Courtiers have travelled out separately, lacking the skill upon horseback to keep up with the chase, and they are already settled around a shaded table engaged in a game of triumphs and supping at an excellent claret.

Breathless from the ride, Elizabeth laughs as Philip assists her in the dismount, and she impulsively kisses him upon the cheek, "Ah, I am not disappointed in the lack of quarry, for I think no quarry could equal the joy of the ride! Is he not a magnificent beast? And Magnus is as superb!"

Philip laughs at her joy, "I cannot think of any pastime that brings you greater joy than this, my dear Queen; come, let us dine, for there shall be another ride back once we are fed and rested."

They seat themselves upon furs and blankets a short distance from the rest of the Court, where they are served the finest dishes from the selection, and converse in Portuguese for privacy. These are always the best times. The times when there are no problems to be resolved, no diplomats to placate…nothing but the pleasure of each others' company. Only the presence of her sons would lead to absolute perfection; but in a few weeks' time, they shall be here, too.

"You were right to make him Master of the Horse, my beloved." Philip smiles, reaching for a piece of pie, "Though I fear that his head has enlarged somewhat in the process."

"He is young, and impetuous." Elizabeths answers, "He married impulsively, and now his poor wife lacks even a house to manage, for he puts all of his energies into his career at Court. Perhaps I should bring her into my household as one of my ladies: if she is not to be given a home of her own. Then he might appreciate her more. I am told that she lacks a courtly education; but Court manners can be learned."

Philip frowns slightly, "Indeed, precious; but in some ways, I fear that Mr Dudley would not be pleased at such a move. He seems to regret his marriage, and prefers to pretend that she does not exist."

Elizabeth turns to him, surprised, "Is that so, Filipe? I knew it not."

"There are rumours, Lizzie; rumours that he is so keen upon his work at Court because it enables him to conceal his wife from his sight."

"But he assured all that he would die if he could not have her!" Elizabeth observes, shocked.

"Such are the words of a man who seeks a carnal marriage, I fear." Philip answers, wryly, "I saw it in Lisbon - many young men who cast themselves at the feet of a woman, only to do likewise to another mere weeks later. They, however, were not fool enough to entangle themselves in the bonds of matrimony before their affections moved on."

"Have his affections moved on?"

"That, I cannot say; for none have said so." Philip admits, "I think that he has found pleasure in his court position, and is keen to absorb himself in politics."

"That shall be interesting to observe when he takes his seat at the council table. If he is so dissatisfied with his marriage, it is surprising to me that he was willing to spend Christmastide with his wife."

"They were at Alnwick with my Lord of Northumberland."

"Ah." Elizabeth sips at her wine, "Perhaps, if Madame Dudley is incorporated into my Household, he shall learn to appreciate her. My uncle did so - and his marriage to my aunt Jane became all the stronger for it. I think I shall bring her into my train for our progress to Kent. If it turns out that Mr Dudley is not willing to consider a rapprochement, then they need not be forced upon each other against their collective wills."

Philip laughs again, "That should be interesting."

* * *

Amy Dudley is a short, thin woman with rich, brown hair and beautifully tawny eyes that look out from a softly rounded, pale face highlighted with a small, rosebud mouth. It is no wonder that her husband was so captivated with her upon first sight. Her beauty, however, is not matched by her intellect, for she has been schooled only to manage a household, and thus she has no skill at more learned pursuits.

Her eyes widen at the sight of the opulence of the chambers that she has entered, and she curtseys deeply to Elizabeth, who is seated in a chair at a writing table, "Your Majesty."

Setting her quill down, Elizabeth rises and accepts a kiss upon her ring, "Mistress Dudley, welcome to my household. Was your journey comfortable?"

"Moderately so, Majesty; I have not travelled by carriage before, but I am grateful for the roads, for they smoothed the ride." She pauses, clearly wondering how to continue a conversation with a woman who she can see is working upon a passage in Latin.

"I have asked you here for two reasons, Mistress Dudley; to replace one of my ladies who has departed to bear a child for her husband, but also to manage the household of my sons, who are due to return to Court in the next two weeks. They have their own servants, of course; but I am told that you have been very well schooled in management of a household, and I should be most pleased for you to act as my representative with their tutors and chamberers. You shall be granted all the privileges and rights of a Lady of the Queen's household; and, should there be any further schooling that you require, you shall be free to receive it."

"I…" she pauses, "…I know not what to say, Majesty; I do not know what I have done to earn such generosity, but I am most grateful for it."

"Your family has been loyal to my House throughout my reign, Mistress Dudley, and I wish to express my gratitude though the granting of deserved Court positions. My steward shall show you to your apartments, and I shall require their Highness's Comptroller to supply you with the appropriate accounts for their household."

Her eyes still very wide, Amy Dudley curtseys again, and follows the Steward out. She may be smiling; but Elizabeth saw the look upon Robert's face when he discovered his wife would be coming to Court in the service of the Queen.

And she wonders if she has done the right thing in inviting her.


	3. The Old and the Young

**A/N:** Jeez: writer's block. Sorry everyone, it's coming on - I promise! Thanks for your messages, reviews and favourites.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

_The Old, and the Young_

**The Palace of Placentia - March, 1562**

The sound of childrens' laughter echoes about the halls of the palace for the first time in many months. The elder bears that telltale mark of the Tudors upon his head, crowned with that same red-gold as his mother, while the younger favours an altogether more Mediterranean aspect in his dark hair and eyes, courtesy of his father.

Their nurse hurries along behind them, admonishing them for their indecorous behaviour as they run back and forth to avoid her; and laughing with them. Such is their joyful excitement, it is hard not to be infected by it: so many new chambers to explore, so many new things to see. Yes, they are Princes; but they are also rambunctious boys who have been brought home to their parents. That is a rare thing for any royal child.

"Your highness! Prince Edward! Compose yourself!" the words come out amidst gulps of laughter, but the boy is old enough to know his obligations and comes to a halt, "Yes, Mistress Peake."

His example causes his brother to do likewise, "Yes, Mistress Peake."

She smiles at them. For all their energy, they remain well governed, good boys, "Thank you, your Highnesses. Your royal parents shall come by later this morning, and we must be ready to greet them, must we not?"

Her smile widens indulgently at their delighted expressions.

The sound of footsteps captures her attention, and they turn to see one of the Queen's ushers, followed by a young woman who smiles and curtseys impeccably, "Your Highnesses, I am Mistress Dudley. I have been tasked by your royal mother with the management of your household." There is a confidence in her voice; a sense of presence that comes from royal approval, "Their Majesties have asked me to convey their joy at your return, and that they look forward to visiting you prior to your formal return to Court."

The older woman looks rather startled; having expected a man to have made such a greeting, "Is there no Steward, Madame?"

For a moment, Mistress Dudley dithers slightly: as though surprised to be challenged; yet - at the same time - not surprised. Her Lord and husband was most irked at the discovery that she had been appointed to a high position in the household of the Princes, being of a rather vain disposition and keen to make his own mark at Court without a regretted wife standing to his rear.

Then she straightens and inclines her head politely, "No, Madame; her Majesty wishes to recognise the worth and skill of the women of her Court to reflect her own good fortune in God's eyes as to be Queen of England. Thus she has looked upon my knowledge and has deemed me fit to see to the welfare and good governance of the Household of her Princes."

"Are you practiced in the management of a house, Mistress?"

"I have been well tutored in the skills required to govern the expenditure and activities of a well-managed house, I can assure you. My mother's health during my later years prior to my marriage became delicate, and thus I dealt with the management of my father's house. I am told that I did so most well."

Mistress Peake nods, less doubtful now, "If it be the Queen's will, then I am pleased to obey. Thank you, Mistress Dudley; the Steward of their household at Windsor has provided the household accounts for your perusal, and a chamber has been set aside for your work."

The two boys bob their heads politely as Mistress Dudley withdraws with another curtsey, and resume their examination of their new quarters, albeit in a rather more controlled fashion. The tapestries upon the walls of their Presence Chamber represent scenes from ancient myth, where heroes rage against the gods while strange beasts play amongst vines. Those myths are some of the boys' favourite stories; brought up on the writings of Homer and Socrates despite their tender years.

"Hal! Come see the view to the gardens!" Heir he might be, but Edward is not lacking for enthusiasm in all about him, or the excitements that always affect small boys. Decorum can come later, after all; he is not a King yet.

The weather is not conducive to exploration of the grounds that stretch from the frontage to the parkland beyond, and instead the pair stand, noses to the glass, and watch the curling mist of a frosty morning while jackdaws circle from the trees and call to one another. Now might not be the time, but the coming year promises grand adventures and games aplenty, and the two look forward to that with great anticipation.

* * *

Across the palace, in a grand chamber where the senior men of the Court are wont to gather when not at work, the mood is far less serene. Old Richmond, in the midst of a game of Primero with Wiltshire, Hackney and Warwick, looks up in annoyance at the continued griping of another of their number, seated with friends in a window alcove, "God's blood, Mr Dudley, it is as though the sky has fallen in upon you - but it is no more than your wife brought to court in the service of her Majesty! I assure you that I did not grouse so when my late Lady Wife walked in the train of the Dowager of Wales!"

Beside him, Warwick glowers in embarrassment, "Heed him, Robin. To gripe as you do looks most ill. Be proud that Amy has won favour with the Queen - it is not as though she can rob you of your court office!"

Across the room, Dudley glares at them all, "And would _you_be content if _yours_looked set to rise above you in royal favour? Nay - for you are the eldest, and thus all favour lies upon you. There is no obligation upon _you_to make your way in this world!"

"Then do as my Lord of Richmond did, Mr Dudley." Hackney advises, "Serve her Majesty diligently and honestly…"

"_Mostly _honestly." Richmond interjects, with a small smile.

"…and you, too, shall enjoy the favour that he has won." Hackney finishes, chuckling. They are aware of Richmond's sins in the old days of Henry's reign, and how he set such actions behind him.

"I, too, was not the heir." Richmond adds, "And thus I - as you do - looked to find success in royal service. Do not as I did; for even now the shades of those who suffered in the face of my duplicity haunt me in the night. I assure you that honest actions are the better way, and allow me to close my eyes to sleep."

Dudley reddens somewhat, and transfers his attention back to the other young men to whom he has been complaining. While he continues to grumble, he does so far more quietly.

"Give him time, friend Warwick," Wiltshire advises, "my father, too, looked to gain favour through conspiracy and sly planning - and near-on lost all for his pains. Not only did he return to favour through honest dealing, but also recovered his love for his wife, and thus I was born to them. There is hope that he shall do likewise."

"He is envious of you." Hackney reminds him, "He is, after all, the fourth of your father's sons. Even were you to falter, John would be next to receive all that you shall inherit, and then Ambrose. Furthermore, you hold his Earldom as a Courtesy Title, while John is Viscount Lisle by the same fashion. I think the only reason that young Guildford does not share in the ambitious determination to seek success is that your father has not yet brought him to Court, while Henry the younger has no wish to seek a career here."

"The perils of a large family, I fear." Warwick agrees, ruefully. "Robin is not a bad man, I assure you; merely ambitious. He shall receive a bequest from my father's estate, of course; but nothing more. To be part of a house that has risen to such heights, and not share in those rewards, cannot be an easy meal to sup."

"I hope that a time shall come when he shall not see his wife as a rival for royal patronage." Wiltshire sighs, "My father overcame that foolishness - had he not, then I should not be here to talk to you - so it can be hoped that Mr Dudley shall do likewise."

"And in less time than it took me to do so." Richmond adds, "Ambition is a great aid to progression at Court, but the Court of her Majesty's late father was a poisonous ants' nest in which such ambition could be harnessed to bad ends. I have seen little of that venom in her Majesty's Court, for she knows better than to govern her Courtiers under the influence of light words and gossip."

"Most ironic." Hackney observes, smiling ruefully.

* * *

The office is well furnished, with wide windows to let in as much light as possible, given the age and weakening sight of its occupant. In spite of his advancing years, Richmond has never lost his capacity for hard work; and, like the late Lord Essex, has become quite convinced that it is lack of work that shall end his days, not overmuch of it.

That said; there are times when he finds himself thinking upon the old days; the days when one's very life could be governed by the caprice of a King who delighted in gossip and backbiting. God knows that he himself took advantage of that temperament, and a decent man died for it. He shudders at the thought; the latent toxicity of that atmosphere led to a similar fate being planned for him: had he not discovered it, then he might well not be sitting in this office. Only that discovery saved him from remaining the vile man he had been at that time, and he gives thanks for it each morning during his devotions.

He sighs as he reaches for a letter that arrived this morning. Once again, his eldest son is setting those worst of his father's former traits upon open display, raising rents upon his lands, denying any relief to those who cannot pay, and now intending to turn an old widow out of her home in order to hand the property to one of his friends. _Dear God…was I like this once?_

Bearing his Barony of Leighs as a courtesy title, Robert has demanded, and received, lands and properties commensurate to his status as the son of an Earl; but he is neither a good nor decent landlord to his tenants. Indeed, one of his agents has reported that the younger Rich's reputation is already sullied amongst those who are subject to him, and it is often said by the folk of the shire: _better a poor man at ease, than Lord Rich of Leighs._

They might once have said that about him - but instead they say it of his son. They certainly would have said it about his father, too. Perhaps his entire family is tainted by that sin…

He sets the letter aside and reaches for a sheet of fresh paper. Charging his quill, he settles down to write a reply. Much as he has no wish to endure his son's disdain, better to attempt to rein him in now, and the best way to do so is to tempt him to Court. For a young man of Robert's proud temperament, that shall hardly be difficult. Perhaps the influence of young courtiers like Hackney and Wiltshire might teach him that it is better to be honest in one's dealings with others. If nothing else, his poor behaviour might earn him a badly needed dressing-down from the Queen.

Handing the completed missive to a steward, he returns his attentions to the forthcoming progress to the home of Lord and Lady Kent. The Queen's anticipation of the visit rises with each passing week; and, with no certainty that he will be able to arrange another, he has no wish to disappoint his Monarch.

The Court will, in a month's time, move to Eltham Palace prior to setting off. With summer approaching, the need to be out of London is always pressing, after all, for fear of plague; but that short journey will be the first of a sequence of moves: a short stay at Knole, then a period as guests of Sir Richard Clement at the charming moated house of Ightham Mote, and then the final journey to Leeds. They shall make the trip over the course of four or so weeks at a slow, leisurely pace, and there shall be entertainments, sports and tourneys along the way to entertain both the Court and the two young princes, who shall also now be with the Queen's train.

Clement's letter accepting the accommodation of a horde of courtiers is so delighted that Richmond smiles to read it. For most, such an invasion would be regarded both with delight, and horror; for all the honour of a royal visit, the cost is always crippling, particularly for the smaller estates whose houses cannot accommodate everyone under a solid roof. Doubtless many shall be required to sleep under canvas, even though Elizabeth prefers to move with a smaller entourage than her father ever did. Ah well: such is the price of proximity to the throne.

Richmond smiles to himself, a touch wickedly; perhaps he should assign young Robert Dudley a billet under canvas. If only to ascertain the degree of the tantrum it would inspire; it would be amusing to do so. Shaking his head in mild amusement, he turns his attention to other papers as a small clock strikes the hour.

* * *

Elizabeth looks up from the itinerary with a smile, "Thank you, my Lord; whilst I am most keen to reach my Mother's house, I am also not unaware of the requirements of a large party upon the move. I trust Sir Richard Clement is to be compensated to some measure for our imposition upon him?"

Richmond nods, "Yes, Majesty; the Crown shall meet the cost of extra victuals for the Courtiers who are present, and for the accommodation of those who cannot be settled inside his house. He shall provide entertainments, and meet the costs of accommodating those who are housed within his walls. He was insistent upon meeting _all _costs, but we persuaded him that to do so might lead to his being obliged to sell the estate in order to recover from them."

There is a mild ripple of amusement around the Council table: several of those sitting there have been obliged to meet such costs in the past, and welcome the assistance that the Crown provides.

"I am aware of the tales told of my father's progresses, and the costs incurred in hosting them, my Lords." Elizabeth advises, "Perhaps I, too, might have been willing to make such an imposition upon my nobles, but I know, too, of noble and gentry families who have never recovered from such a visit. I am convinced that the Holy Father would be most displeased with me for demanding so much from others when I am blessed with greater riches than they."

She pretends not to notice the pleased, and rather indulgent, smiles of her accumulated Councillors. Even now she is still regarded almost as a favoured daughter by some of them, though they endeavour not to show it, for they respect her for the Queen she is, and know better now than to consider her to be no more than a mere woman.

Northumberland, in response to her recognition, rises to his feet, "I fear I must dampen our pleasure at this point, Majesty; for our Ambassador in France has been advised by her Majesty the Regent's spies that King Philip of Spain is sounding it about that he wishes to revive the claim for England's throne on behalf of the former Lady Mary."

Eyebrows are raised all around the table; having abandoned her to her fate after the failure of her attempted invasion, it seems that Philip's desire to claim England has taken on a new complexion. Even the likelihood that the poor woman is now dead seems not to be an obstacle to his ambition.

"Is he aware that my sister is presumed dead?" Elizabeth asks, irked at the suggestion that a late relative is being abused in such fashion.

"Probably - but the fact that she is _presumed_dead gives him sufficient room to pretend that she is not. Philip requires a focus for his claim, or none shall heed him; even though the late Lady herself could not inspire your fellow Princes to depose you, he still attempts to use her name to achieve that end."

"What of the Queen Regent?"

"I am advised that she regards Philip's plaints with scepticism, and prefers to retain good relations with England. Costly wars have impacted upon her coffers as much as Philip's and trade with a stable realm keeps the exchequer healthier than squabbling over borders or religious matters." Northumberland pauses, "Though I think that, were she in a better position to do so, she might consider allying with Spain to win England for Rome."

"In other words, steal our wealth." Richmond grunts, cynically.

Elizabeth smiles, a little thinly, "Advise our Ambassador to keep watch upon matters, and ensure that he is aware of our plans. Should matters change between France and Spain, I would expect to know of it as soon as can be managed, rather than have a messenger chasing from house to house in search of us."

"Speaking of matters religious, Majesty," Wiltshire takes up, "We have received pleas for help from the Low Countries again. They wish to continue to take up arms against the oppression of Spain, and look to their neighbours for aid."

"Surely we should provide at least some degree of assistance?" young Warwick asks, worriedly, "It is hard to ignore such suffering of our fellow Christians while we sit in safety and watch from afar."

Rather than scold him, Northumberland sighs, "I wish that it could be done; but that safety is reliant upon our trade agreements and treaties. To dispatch men at arms to the Low Countries would abrogate them, and we would find ourselves at war."

"I, too, wish that such a thing could be done, my Lord Warwick." Elizabeth agrees, "I pray each morn for the succour of those who suffer under the weight of such intolerance. The safety of our Realm is of equal importance however, and I can do no more than offer sanctuary to any who might flee the cruelties of Philip's inquisitors. King John of Sweden has done likewise. If our neighbours will not follow our example of tolerance of both faiths, then all that we can do is offer a haven for those who are obliged to flee in order to seek it."

"And if they bring their skills as weavers and merchants with them, who are we to decline such largesse?" Richmond adds, cheerfully, "Thus, all benefit."

Elizabeth smiles, as another ripple of amusement crosses the table, "Then go to, my Lords. If we are to depart before midsummer, we should take steps to be ready."

* * *

"No, Stuart; set that robe with the items to be sent to St Bartholomew." Richmond looks up from his chair in the oriel to the work of his manservant as he sorts his way though the Earl's closets to remove the excessive possessions that have accumulated during their stay at Placentia. With the move to Eltham imminent, the fewer coffers he is obliged to bring with him, the fewer men he shall need to cart them about. The Queen has, after all, been insistent that her train be as limited as possible to ease the burden upon Sir Richard Clement. While they are only staying at one non-Royal property, it is still the home of a man who is not overwhelmed with riches.

"I am glad to be left behind, I think, my Lord." His companion this morning is an unusual one, for Richmond has never been overly fond of Sir William Paget. The man is, however, the Queen's secretary - an able replacement for the long-dead Thomas Wriothesley - but has taken the opportunity to retire from the Queen's service and return to his estates to see out the rest of his years. For a man who has not benefited as much as others in royal service, he seems remarkably lacking in bitterness; but he, too, seems to have mellowed in the face of a far less brutal political atmosphere in the palaces.

"I fear we shall be most bereft in your absence, Sir William." Richmond smiles, raising his cup in salute, "Your orderliness and patience have been to the great benefit of the realm. I am at a loss to fathom how we shall cope without you."

Paget smiles, "Nay, my Lord. I have found an able replacement. A young lawyer residing at Lincoln's Inn, who is wasted there. Already he has obtained a place in Parliament, and looks to be a most talented man."

The description is familiar to Richmond, "Ah, you are referring to young Cecil, are you not? I have heard of him; and I concur with your assessment. Does he show interest in a Court career?"

"Do not _all _men of his origins desire a Court career?" Paget smirks, "He is of gentry origins, and gentlemen are now considered to be the equal of noblemen in terms of the service that they can give to the Crown."

"As I know well from personal experience." Richmond chuckles, "Her Majesty is a sun about whom all men are willing to set their orbit. Thanks be to God that He sends her men of talent."

Their discussion is interrupted by a knock upon the door. Opening it, Stuart turns to the two men in the Oriel, "My Lord, His Grace the Baron of Leighs."

Seeing the expression on the face of the young man in the doorway, Paget rises, "I shall be on my way, my Lord. My best wishes for a safe journey for your Grace and the Court. Good day."

As he departs, Richmond almost wishes he could go, too. His son is scowling with annoyance, and he does not relish the interview that is to come. Instead, he rises, "Come in, Robert."

"I have plans, Father." Leighs answers, crossly, "I do not appreciate their being interrupted."

"Regardless of plans or aspirations, I remain your father. Is it truly beyond your ability to offer even a pretence of filial deference?"

The scowl deepens. Richmond chooses to ignore it, "Is Elizabeth well?"

"Well enough. She is with child again, so I considered it unwise to subject her to a journey."

_This shall be like pulling teeth, _Richmond thinks to himself, but steps aside, "Please: be seated Robert. There is a goodly sack to drink, and some wafers."

Despite his attempts to smooth the waters, Leighs seems uninterested in reciprocating, "Speak quickly, Father. If I am to be entombed at Court, then I would wish to introduce myself to those with whom I am interred."

Oddly, for a moment, Richmond's throat narrows, as though tears shall shortly rise; but instead he forces himself to stand up as straight as his aged frame will permit, "Regardless of your majority, or your age, you are still my son. Should you wish to _remain _so, I charge you to treat me with respect. Even if it be naught but a mask of deceit."

He is not surprised to see the threat of disinheritance has the effect that a plea to good conscience does not. Disappointed - but not surprised. It is the only power he has over the young man that he sired, so what else can he do but wield it?

Resentment exuding from every pore, Leighs takes Paget's recently vacated seat in the oriel, and glowers as Stuart sets out a fresh cup in order to pour out the promised sack. Fighting to conceal his distress, Richmond returns to his chair and looks out of the window at the small court-garden beyond, "I am told that you have raised the rents on the estates that I settled upon you."

"They were too low. The tenants had become lax, so I gave them a reason to become more industrious. If they cannot pay, then it is for them to find a place more suited to their idleness."

_God's wounds woman! If they must work harder to pay their due, then they must work harder! Your soft heart has no place in a world of commerce!_

Richmond blinks at the stirred memory. How old had he been? Had he even reached his tenth year when his father had reprimanded his mother for her concerns over the rents he was charging his tenants? If there had ever been a time when his father was kind, he has no memory of it.

"And what of Widow Sefton? She has resided in that small manor for the entirety of her married days, and the memories it contains are a great comfort to her. Your late mother spent many pleasant hours in her company."

"She is an old woman in a large house that needs no more than a bed in an almshouse. James Glover is looking to marry well, and he cannot do it without suitable property."

"If he cannot earn property through his own skill, then he does not deserve it. I had no inheritance, so I sought to make my way in the world."

Leighs does not look at him; he has no answer to such a statement. He has earned nothing that is not an inheritance, and seems to spend more than he makes. Though his father does not say so, they both know that the rents have actually been raised to recover debts caused by his profligacy.

"I should like to see Elizabeth and the boys before the year's end." Richmond continues, since his son has no wish to speak, "Her Majesty has permitted me to invite family to join the Court at Leeds, and there shall be more than sufficient space to accommodate both Lizzie and my grandsons alongside you." _But not whatever mistress you have concealed behind the arras._

He watches as his son swallows down the sack with a sour grimace, "Get you gone, Robert. If you have no wish to keep my company then seek it elsewhere. Know, however, that her Majesty does not appreciate unfilial offspring, and also that your inheritance remains secure only because I have not yet opted to change my will. If that is the only language between us that you understand, then that is the language that I shall, perforce, speak to you."

Without a word, Leighs rises, bows to his father with that same air of resentment, and departs.

"Shall I pour more sack, my Lord?" Stuart asks, sympathetically, as he sees his master slump in his chair again.

Richmond shakes his head. His eyes sad, the loyal manservant withdraws as the old man gazes tearfully out of the window.

* * *

Elizabeth reviews the accounts of her sons' household and smiles, "Thank you, Mistress Dudley, these are most satisfactory."

"Thank you, Majesty." Amy bobs a polite curtsey, "Mistress Peake's expenditure is undertaken with great care. I find that my work is made the easier for her good governance."

The Queen laughs, "It might surprise you, Mistress Dudley; but Mistress Peake has spoken much the same of you. I think you both to be excellent governors of my childrens' household."

Amy curtseys again, her cheeks pink with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure at the compliment. The Queen has noted already the improvement in her demeanour as she blossoms in the light of the trust placed in her, though Elizabeth is not blind to the reciprocal disgruntlement of her husband as his wife's presence at Court looks set to equal his own in value to their Monarchs. Men do not like to be eclipsed by the women in their lives, after all.

She chooses not to enquire into the private matter of Amy's relationship with her ambitious husband. For all his talent as her Master of the Horse, Robert's resentment at his lesser position in his own family could not be more obvious, for he sets it upon display at the least opportunity. Even his recent appointment to the Council has done little to quell it - though it has certainly increased his conceit at the privilege he has been given over many of the other younger men of the Court. Does he know that they tolerate him only because they might gain preference on the back of his greater status? Perhaps not; but those who stand outside that circle and look into it know well that his wife is - at this moment - the more well regarded of the two.

Granting the young woman consent to depart, Elizabeth rises from her desk and makes her way through the passages between her apartments and those of her sons. Regardless of her worries and work, she is intent upon spending as much time as she can in their company. They will not be young forever, after all.

"Mama!" Edward looks up from his books as she enters their solar, and hastens from the table to her open arms. God above, she loves this studious child; almost her own image in both looks and mind.

The sound of his brother's voice brings young Henry out of the ante-chamber that he uses to conceal his preference to play with toy soldiers rather than read his lessons, and the boy hastens to join Edward in his mother's embrace, "Mama!"

"My dear boys!" she laughs, "Shall we step out into the gardens awhile? The weather is too nice to be cooped up inside these chambers, is it not? Besides, we have much to discuss, for you must be ready for our progress to visit your Grandmama."

Henry claps his hands in delight, while Edward's expression also brightens at such a prospect. They have visited their Grandmother on occasion, but their enclosed lives as Princes give them little opportunity to escape the confinement of palace walls. To combine both that escape, and a visit to Grandmama Anne is the height of good fortune in their young eyes, and they chatter excitedly to each other as she leads them out into the privy garden.

"When are we to leave, Mama?" Edward asks, "Soon?"

"Yes, my darling, we are to leave soon. First we shall go to Eltham, where your Grandpapa lived when he was a boy. Then we shall travel to Knole, where we shall stay a few days. After that, we shall go to stay with Sir Richard Clement, who has a most delightful manor house that is surrounded by a moat."

She smiles at their excitement; they have never stayed in any house that has a moat, after all.

"And then?" Henry prompts.

"Then we shall go to your Grandmama's house, and we shall stay there for the whole of the summer. There is a great park, in which you can ride, and you shall learn to fly hawks, and to hunt. There shall be boats on the lake if the weather is hot, and feasting aplenty." She opts not to mention that their tutor shall be travelling with them. Why spoil their anticipation with the promise of schooling in the midst of their pleasure?

The sound of footsteps upon gravel captures her attention, and she looks up to see her husband approaching, "Ah, Majesty; I wondered where you might be. It seems that I am not alone in my wish to spend some time in a fragrant garden."

"Papa!" the two boys leap up to run to their father, who greets them with an embrace, "We are to go to Grandmama's with you!"

"Are you indeed?" He asks, as though this is a startling discovery, though he has known as much as Elizabeth that this has always been the intention, "That is excellent news!"

"Did you not know?" Henry asks, in all innocence.

Philip laughs and tousles his son's hair, much to the child's annoyance, "Papa!" immediately, he smooths the hair down again.

The boys step back from his embrace and race one another around the perimeter of the garden, while Philip sits down on a bench with his wife, "It is good to have them here, my beloved. I am most grateful that my concerns were not heeded."

"Am I not always right, Filipe?" Elizabeth smiles at him, archly.

"Always, my Queen." He smiles back, holding her hand tightly as their children play in the sunshine, "Always."


	4. Time to Depart

**A/N: **Happy New Year! Sorry it's taken so long, but I'm nearly done, so I can start posting chapters more regularly; though the story took an entirely different turn in the last couple of days, and that seems to have shaken off the writer's block. For a short story, this one has been quite tough to bring to fruition! Anyway thanking everyone for their patience - the journey is about to begin, and Elizabeth will be on her way to Kent...

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

_Time to Depart_

**The Palace of Placentia - Late May, 1562**

The mews echo with the clatter of a multitude of horses, and an equal chorus of shouting grooms, chamberers, wagoners and stewards. The first of the baggage trains is to leave in an hour, and already the schedule is coming adrift.

Such is the way of things, of course; no plan can ever take stragglers, wet weather or a broken axle into account, and the combination of all three has caused a considerable delay as a blacksmith has needed to be fetched to assist a wheelwright in repairing the damage. Their labours require a deal of space to accomplish; space that is not readily available, so much additional argument and contesting has taken place over the last quarter hour as those who desire to load the undamaged wagons complain vigorously at the lack of room for them to work.

Above them, watching from a gallery, Robert Dudley glowers with equal annoyance; God's wounds, they are so _slow_! All he wishes is for the rabble to depart upon their way to Eltham and allow him the space to fetch out and view the two fine geldings that he has procured for the Princes. With his tiresome wife now regularly in the company of the Queen, the need for a noticeable gesture has become urgent, particularly as his companions find it most amusing that he is all-but riding upon her train.

To most, his temperament would be a cause for scorn. He holds an Office of State that gives him the ear of both Queen and King, and _still_ he is discontented? Certainly Ambrose has no patience or sympathy for his complaints, being altogether more content with his lot; but then, Ambrose has a better wife, and more respect and more…

And so the grumbling goes on. Patience has never been Dudley's talent: he must have it _all_, and he must have it _now_. In some ways it has been of benefit, for his desire to master skills as quickly as he may has given him a strong work ethic of which his father is rather proud, albeit tempered by embarrassment at the desire for equally speedy preferment that seems to have accompanied it. There is an excellent courtier lurking within Robert Dudley, but he seems buried by the buffoonishness that cannot bring itself to wait for its turn to shine.

A movement off to his left catches his eye, and Dudley turns to see an unfamiliar man approaching. From his expression, it is clear that the arrival had assumed that he would find the gallery untenanted, and he turns to depart.

"Hold, sir!" Dudley calls across, eager for a new face to which he can address his plaints, "I have not seen you hereabouts. Who might you be?"

His tone is friendly, and his words thus sound to be more an enquiry than a challenge. The stranger pauses, then approaches, though he does not answer.

"Robert Dudley, Master of the Queen's Horse." He introduces, extending a hand for shaking.

To his relief, the other accepts his greeting and takes the hand, "Robert Rich, Baron Leighs."

Damnation; another bloody nobleman, then Dudley makes the connection, "Then his Grace the Lord Chancellor is your father?"

Leighs nods, still a little standoffish.

"Mine is Northumberland, so I share your burden of a highly placed parent. Are you to make the journey to Eltham?"

"Indeed so." Leighs answers, a little more warmly at the mild barb over their shared problem, and its implication that his audience might be sympathetic, "I fear my inheritance rests upon it."

Dudley smirks, "In which case, my Lord, I highly recommend seeking and obtaining a Court appointment; for then one is less stung by the threat of its loss. I am one of five sons, and thus there shall be little set aside for me." Despite himself, he cannot keep the resentment from his tone; and that in itself wins over Leighs, "Then we are two men with much the same predicament, albeit different facets thereof."

"A bastion of rebellion against intransigent fathers." Dudley laughs, "Come, that bloody wagon seems to be fixed, and the train is moving off. Perhaps I shall now have the opportunity to walk the Princes' new horses. Your opinion would be most welcome."

"I am no expert in the quality of horseflesh." Leighs admits.

"Then I shall ask you if they are fine to look at."

Smiling altogether more cheerfully, Dudley turns and leads his new fast-friend down to the yard.

* * *

The wheels of the expensive carriage rattle on the cobbles as they cross the old bridge over the moat that surrounds the palace of Eltham, waking the two young occupants who had, at the point of leaving Placentia, been most insistent that they would ride with their elders. Mistress Peake smiles at them as the two princes sit up more straight, and look about them with an expectant air. Perhaps in a few years they shall be old enough - and strong enough - to undertake the journey on horseback; but not yet.

Edward pokes his head out of the window, his eyes bright with anticipation of a new palace to explore: he has lived in many of the royal houses, but this is one that he has never seen. To his young eyes, unused to the grandeur of Placentia, the palace seems as fine as any of the homes he has frequented, and he smiles with delight as they pull under a grand gatehouse into a base court where their chamberers are already awaiting them to escort them to their new apartments, "Hal!" He turns back to his brother, "See how big it is, what japes we shall have here!"

Henry is immediately beside him, attempting to push through the same small window to share his brother's view, "Where are we to stay?"

"You shall see anon, your Highnesses," Mistress Peake laughs, "Now, be seated again, for your royal parents shall wish to greet you, and would it not be better to exit the carriage as men, rather than as rats escaping a trap through the window?"

In spite of their excitement, the boys comply, and permit her to carefully smooth down their ruffled hair, and ruffled garments, before the window is darkened by a shadow as their tutor arrives to greet them, "Their Majesties are crossing the bridge, Highnesses."

Even he is indulgently amused by their delight.

Behind the carriage, the Queen's fine chestnut gelding trots across the bridge alongside that of her husband, a fine dark bay. The royal couple make a magnificent spectacle, dressed in rich velvets and silks, their horses' furniture equally well made. The burghers of the district have all-but lined the route from Placentia to cheer their beloved Queen, despite that route being almost entirely through the royal park.

Elizabeth has always loved the freedom of the saddle, chasing at the head of the hunt, or simply making her slow way through the shady avenues of trees in the growing shadows of a late afternoon before a private supper with her husband. A gift from both her parents, her talent as a horsewoman is scarcely matched even by the men of her Court, and she knows that they hang back not out of courtesy, but out of sheer inability to keep up.

The two young geldings that have been selected for her sons to continue their own riding lessons are following in the care of a groom that has been hand-picked for the task by Mr Dudley. He is not aware yet that he is to receive a knighthood this evening; though Elizabeth's intention is not so much to inflate his self regard as to give his wife some degree of authority in the Princes' household as Lady, rather than Mistress, Dudley.

She sighs inwardly; a talented man with a shocking lack of humility, he has already lost the regard of most of the Council with whom he is soon to sit as an Officer of the State. Perhaps she is making trouble for herself by elevating him, but there is always the hope that he shall find maturity if he is obliged to follow the example of his altogether more temperate brothers.

The sight of her children quickly banishes that lurking worry, and she smiles as they emerge from the carriage with barely concealed excitement. That is no surprise; they have never travelled with the Court on progress before, and the sheer numbers of people, the noise and colour, could hardly do less than fill them with bubbling anticipation of the pleasures to come.

Were she not in so public a forum, she would dismount quickly and easily; but she is surrounded by people who would be shocked by such indecorous behaviour as her riding habit would swirl about her in a most unbecoming fashion. Thus she submits to the provision of a mounting block, and sets herself down via oak steps softened with a covering of fine, red-wool carpet.

Edward bows, with Henry in immediate emulation, "Majesty."

Elizabeth's smile widens, and she can see that the boy longs to abandon such stilted formality and rush into her skirts in greeting, "Good day to you both, highnesses. Shall we go in?"

Their tutor bows, while Mistress Peake curtseys. Between them, they usher the impatient youths ahead of them into the dark, cool halls of the house, while their parents follow.

The grand entrance hall is paved with fine italian marble, while the best quality oaken wainscoting lines the walls. Even in the mild chill that the applewood fires in the grates do not _quite_ mitigate, the fragrance of the oils that have been applied to the wood remains in the air, alongside the comforting aroma of beeswax that has polished the wood of the dressers and chairs to a rich sheen.

"We should use this house more frequently, Filipe," Elizabeth says, taking her husband's hand, "It lacks the grand dimensions of Placentia, but it is most well placed in fine countryside, and well away from the malodorous humours of the river. Perhaps the coming Christmastide?"

"I should not demur, my beloved." Philip agrees, his eyes upon the rich, dark wood of the beams above them, and the well-turned balusters of the gallery, "I think this is how those of the Nobility spend their time, and I should like to make a game that we are not royal, but instead a family of means in a loved house."

"Ah. Such pretence." Elizabeth smiles, "Come, let us pretend that our apartments are not royal, and exchange riding garments for those of a loving couple returning to their happy home."

Laughing, Philip leads her upstairs, leaving the chaos of arrival in their wake.

* * *

The reduced size of the palace is no matter for a reduced entourage, and Warwick is contented with his simple apartments. Two floors up and overlooking a small parterre garden, they are flooded with sunlight as the day draws to its close, while the welcome aromas of their forthcoming supper waft in from the kitchens through an open window.

The door behind him opens, and he turns with a sigh to reprimand his new steward _again_, then stops, "Robin." God above, familial relationship or not, his brother is singularly lacking in manners at times.

"I thought I was to be a member of the Council? Why am I in all-but an attic?"

Warwick blinks. The last he knew, the upper floors were blessed with decent accommodation, but apparently not for this ungrateful popinjay. Certainly they will match his in their state - and he is quite content with it.

Irked, he turns back to the window, "I take it you would prefer to turn the Lord Privy Seal or the Lord Chancellor out of their apartments and demand that they take yours instead?" The higher Lords of the Court are on the first floor, opposite the wing where the Queen and her family are installed, and only a fool would think that they are housed poorly.

There is no answer behind him, but he hears the light thump as his brother slumps into an armchair. The only armchair. He turns back again, crossly, "For the love of God, Robin; be a man, instead of a petulant boy! To be here at all is a privilege for us all, and _still_ you are malcontented? I thought children were meant to become better mannered as they grew, not worse! Is it any wonder that the higher Courtiers do not give you their attention? Why should they do so to a mere child?"

To his surprise, Robert does not rise to his anger, but instead continues to glare into the fireplace with a foolish air of hurt. From petulance to sulking; how tiresome. Then he remembers, Amy is currently seeing to the welfare of the Princes, and thus is ensconced in a chamber across in the royal wing. That she shall be spending the night in his chamber is apparently insufficient to salve that bruised self-regard.

In spite of himself, he smiles: unlike Robert, Amy has seen all that she has received from the Queen as a grand gift, and is grateful for it. Indeed, she has blossomed like a flower in the light of the Queen's favour. Her carriage is better, she is less inclined to keep silent than once she was - though she never does so in a manner contrary to the requirements of a wife. His own wife, Margaret, has found her to be far better company these days, and the two are often to be found together.

Not here, though; with their sickly daughter showing signs of illness again, she has returned to their family home to care for her. The letter that he has written to her rests upon a nearby dresser, sealed and awaiting dispatch. Has Robin ever written to Amy when they were apart on any matter other than domestic necessity? He cannot know; but he thinks it highly unlikely.

"Come now, Robin; do not allow yourself to be so vexed over matters of so little import; you are the Master of the Queen's Horse - and shall take your place at the Council table this summer. Is that not good? You are taking your first steps towards becoming a favoured Courtier: do not risk all through such foolishness. Her Majesty is a wise young woman, but she has the temper of both of her parents. Best not to stoke it, I think."

Finally, Robert turns and acknowledges his brother, "Aye, Henry. That is true - she has all the fire and temper of her father and her mother. As you wish: I shall bite my tongue and see what she shall grant me as a loyal servant." He does not admit that, once he has left, he shall resume his grousing in the far more sympathetic company of Robert Rich. So habituated is he to being irked, that he seems not to know how to escape it. Or perhaps he does not recognise that he must do so.

Even though Henry has not heard those discontented words, he knows his brother well, and can see them lurking unsaid behind that stiff countenance. Ah well, if all goes to hell, then it cannot be said that he did not try. Watching as Robert heaves himself out of the chair and departs as swiftly as he came, he sighs to himself and shrugs into his furred simarre. Sulking brother or no, it is time to sup.

* * *

"Give it back to me, Ned!" Henry's voice is strident and indignant, "It is mine!"

"You should be at your lessons, Hal; I am done with mine and I can do what I will - I am your elder! And I will be King one day, so you must do as I say!"

"Highnesses!" Mistress Peake interrupts their quarrel, "Cease this squabbling at once! What would your mother think?"

"Make Ned give me back my soldier!" Henry insists, nearly blubbering in his frustration, "He will not give it back to me!" his small hands are clenched into fists, while he glares at his brother. Edward, on the other hand, is standing tall, and holding the small toy very firmly out of reach. It is naught but a childish squabble between brothers, of course; with the elder imposing authority over the younger - and shall be forgotten by suppertime - but such behaviour is unbecoming for an heir to the throne.

"Give it back, Edward. To behave so is inappropriate - and should not be the act of a Prince."

Everyone turns, startled; for Philip has not been announced. His expression is stern, for he, too, is a younger brother, and he understands that sense of injustice when an older brother imposes his will upon a younger sibling. They are children, of course, and children are hardly known for their sense of fairness - but Edward will be King in time: better to teach him to be fair to all while he is a boy. It is not a lesson he shall so easily learn as a man. Besides, a resentful younger brother would be troublesome for the Realm as much as for a brother.

Chastened, Edward lowers his arm and permits Henry to retrieve his soldier, "I am sorry, Hal."

Philip smiles at his elder son, and then looks to Henry, expectantly. For a moment, the younger boy's expression remains mutinous: but - eventually - he nods, "Thank you."

"That is good, Hal. It is never wise to hold a grudge; it hurts only you, not the one against whom you hold it."

"Yes, Papa." Philip holds out his arm and Henry accepts his embrace. They are still very young - quarrels are inevitable between them - but once they are older, those quarrels could well become destructive, and that is something both he, and Elizabeth, are keen to avoid. Ah well, once they are at Ightham Mote, Sir Richard's children will provide much needed companionship, and the opportunity to engage in sports and games. With no other children in the royal train, there are few distractions for them.

"Now we must sup with the court tonight, my sons; but, upon the morrow, we shall ride out in the park upon your new horses. Mama shall be along to see you before you are abed."

"Yes papa." The pair nod respectfully to their father, while Mistress Peake curtseys, with a relieved expression. Smiling at her, Philip turns and makes his way back to the apartments that he shares with his wife.

Elizabeth is in her dressing chamber, being carefully eased into the heavy gown that she is obliged to wear before the court. Adjourning to his own, where Mathias, his chief steward, is laying out his suit for tonight's feast, Philip feels, as he seems often to do, the sense of joy at knowing that she is his wife. Emerging again, washed and changed, he smiles at her. She is wearing his favourite of her gowns; the russet red brocade over a bronze kirtle embroidered with crowns and oak leaves. Her hair is elaborately curled and teased out under a gold net, while her cosmetics are a discreet enhancement of her gentle countenance, "Ah, my beloved; I am but a poor reflection of your beauty." His voice is mellifluous, and his expression impish. Elizabeth laughs.

"If I did not know you better, my lord; I should think that you had committed some error."

His arms encircle her narrow waist, "How can you be assured that I have not?"

"But you are perfect, my Filipe," She whispers, her lips moving towards his, "and I am the most beloved and joyful woman in Christendom."

Her ladies hasten out of view as the couple kiss. Even though they cannot do more than that in the time that they have available to them, their ladies and gentlemen prefer to grant them at least a pretence of discretion.

Elizabeth steps back, then laughs, "I have reddened your lips, Filipe."

"Then all shall see evidence of our love." He smiles and extends his arm, "Come, your Majesty - it is time to sup and display ourselves to the Court."

As always in such circumstances, they are escorted by an honour guard and followed by their entourages. Much as Elizabeth enjoys the formality and associated decoration of a full court display, her preference has always been for privacy with her family in the evening. On progress, however, matters are different - the Court is travelling, and thus she is expected to display herself for the inevitable entertainments and feasting that accompanies such an upheaval. So instead, she will move that private meal to dinner time, and eat with her children during the day.

Trumpets blare out to welcome her to the grand hall. Like the halls of most of her larger palaces, the great space is crowned with a magnificent hammer beam roof, while the players of the Queen's Consort are waiting to entertain the gathered throng from the gallery over the screens passage. The high table awaits upon a raise dais, where the most highly favoured of her courtiers are to be seated. Beyond, three rows of trestles and benches are dressed with linen cloths and set with polished pewter, and the rest of the Court are also standing to await her.

As they are not being hosted, the place of honour to her right is occupied by the elderly Lord Richmond, who smiles to her in welcome as she takes her seat. Beyond him stands Northumberland, then Lord Hackney: the three most powerful men of her Government. Pausing to squeeze Richmond's hand, she turns to face her Court, "Welcome all! On the first night of our Progress, let us give thanks for God's kindness in granting us bright weather for our journey, and the love of our subjects as they cheered us on our way." She turns to look across to her Chaplain, who speaks words of thanks for the feast to come, and all take their seats.

"I must thank your Majesty for the kind offer of the carriage." Richmond says, as the first remove is set out upon the tables, "Much as I would prefer to make this journey upon horseback, I fear that my age prevents it for more than short periods. I hope that I might accompany you in such manner as we arrive at each stop, and as we depart."

"You are of great value to me, my Lord." Elizabeth advises him, "It is important for the Realm that you are comfortable upon progress." Her eyes sparkle humorously, and he smiles in return.

* * *

The assembly sup upon venison and beef, while those further down the tables are served well-hung mutton and capons. The sauces are shining and rich with wines and spices and are sopped up with frumenty well spiked with fruit and nuts, or mountains of fine manchet bread. There is sweetened ale and claret to drink, and gentle music from the gallery trickles down to accompany the rumbling conversation of more than a hundred diners.

The second remove is a wide assortment of jellies and broths, scented with rosewater and garnished with petals, and the conversation is punctuated with delighted exclamations at the dishes that have arrived. Elizabeth has ruled that the conversation at the supper table must not be of a political nature, so all chatter and gossip, rather than discuss matters that are better considered at the council table. Instead, she discusses matters of a more domestic nature with Richmond and Northumberland; learning of their childrens' doings and the arrival of grandchildren. Once they have retired to sample the banquet course, things shall be different, of course; but for now the conversation is light and trivial.

As expected, Richmond does not disappoint in this regard, and she sits beside him in the banqueting chamber, allowing him to speak comfortably, "News from France, my Lord?"

He smiles, a little thinly, "I am told that Philip's ambassador has won a furious tirade from her Majesty the Regent of France over unwanted overtures to quell the low countries in their wish to govern themselves. Spain's inquisition is eager to root out heretics, and those who are not subservient to Rome are fearful that they might be set before inquisitorial courts."

Elizabeth sighs, and reaches for her hippocras, "I take it that Queen Catherine is interested only in ensuring religious uniformity within her own borders?"

Richmond nods, "She has no wish for Inquisitors to impose themselves upon her realm. She would prefer such activity to be undertaken by her own people. I am given to understand that she has continued her late husband's policy of granting a third of a reformer's property to the man who informs upon him."

"And so they inform?"

He nods again, "Whether truthfully or not."

"Then we must ensure that our borders are open to those who fear that they must find a more welcoming nation to practice their faith."

"That is in hand." He assures her, then smiles, "I have the letters patent to hand for the knighting of Mr Dudley."

"Excellent." She sees his expression, "What?"

He pauses for a moment, but then continues, "He seems not to have treated his elevation to a Court appointment with as much gratitude as his wife has treated her appointment to your Majesty's. His resentment is almost open."

"He is ambitious, my Lord." Elizabeth reminds him, "All the younger men of the Court are ambitious - maturity shall come in time. Patience is a virtue, is it not?"

He smiles again, "Indeed it is, Majesty. Perhaps he shall learn that gratitude in due course, and become the excellent courtier I am sure he has the potential to be."

"If he learns to be more like Henry, John and Ambrose, my Lord, then I have no doubt of it."

* * *

Lady Amy Dudley sits and embroiders as her husband preens at himself in the reflection from one of the windows of their apartment. For a moment, she thinks him to be delighted to have received his knighthood, and to be known as 'Sir Robert Dudley'; but his expression is an unbecoming mix of pride and discontent. His wounded pride has been salved to some degree - but it still remains tinged with jealousy of his eldest brother. After all, Ambrose also has a knighthood rather than a peerage, so what is it to have one himself when Henry and John have possession of their father's courtesy titles?

A part of her, the one that she has always been required to keep silent, desires to reprimand him for his childish behaviour. Until he came to Court, he had been quite charming: bright, sharp witted and excellent company to all. Even to her.

And then he came to Court.

It is not the fault of Henry, John or Ambrose; they seemed to take to Court life with sober good sense and kept their ambition rather more well-governed. Her Robin has an impulsiveness that they lack, and thus cannot keep his ambition as controlled. It is one of the traits that first attracted her to him, and even now that he seems to have tired of her, she remembers those early days of courtship fondly for that very impulsiveness.

In spite of her newfound success, that requirement to be silent remains strong, so she heeds it. The beautifully penned letters patent sit upon a dresser nearby, where Robin abandoned them. Bizarrely, he seems convinced that they should serve as a warrant to be granted better quarters, even though his brothers are no better housed than he. Such foolishness: perhaps the only way that it can be quelled shall be for him to make a fool of himself over it. Only to spike her Majesty's temper is likely to provide that dousing of cold sense that he so clearly needs. All she can do is be patient, and hope that he shall heed that moment when it comes.

Without acknowledging her, Dudley turns and departs for his first Council meeting. While he has been the Queen's Master of the Horse for some months, he has not taken his place at the council table before. That it is a reduced council, and little of substance is to be discussed, matters not. He has been appointed, and the opportunity to out-shine his less favoured brothers is highly tempting.

As he approaches the chamber that has been set aside for the Council, he spies Richmond limping along the passageway, leaning on his walking sticks and in quiet conversation with Northumberland. Partly out of deference to his father, and partly in order to ingratiate himself with the Lord Chancellor, Dudley falls into step beside them, "Father; your Grace."

"Ah - my hearty congratulations, Sir Robert," Richmond smiles at him, "Another member of the august Dudley family entering honoured service to her Majesty."

"Thank you, your Grace." The younger man's expression is slightly odd; as though he regards the honestly given complement as having an edge of criticism, or even insult.

Slightly bemused, Richmond opts to ignore it, "You enter the Council at a time when insight from our younger councillors is assuredly of great importance, Sir Robert. Your contributions shall be most welcome."

The expression shifts slightly as the bitterness is swallowed by a slightly proud upturn of the lips, "That is my hope, your Grace." Nodding politely, Dudley hastens his step to leave the older men behind.

"Forgive me, friend John;" Richmond sighs in a much lower voice, "but I wonder if we have erred in bringing that boy to the Council table at this time. I fear it has served only to expand his self regard."

Northumberland shakes his head, "There is nothing to forgive, Richard: the even as a boy, he always envied the success of his elder brothers, and it seems unchanged even as he has grown into a man - to the point that his envy masks his talent on occasions. It is frustrating - most frustrating. Robin has the potential to be the best of my sons if only he could set aside his irked jealousy of his brothers' better situations."

As they enter the chamber, most of the seats around the table are taken by the few colleagues that have travelled with the entourage. Wiltshire is already seated, with Warwick and Lisle alongside him, while Hackney sits opposite and laughs at a joke that Lisle has just made. Only three seats remain; but Dudley remains standing, as though uncertain of where to seat himself. To any other making their debut upon the Council, the choice would be obvious; for two of the seats are either side of the Queen's chair, and clearly intended for Richmond and Northumberland. The other, however, is at the far end of the table, and Dudley clearly does not wish to accept what he sees to be an inferior position.

"Oh, sit yourself, Robin." Warwick chides, "The seats at this table are equal; none shall judge you for sitting where you do."

Fortunately, rather than argue, Dudley opts instead to scowl somewhat and take the seat. Sharing a slightly weary glance, Richmond and Northumberland take theirs.

"Is there news from France, my Lord?" Hackney asks the Chancellor.

"Nothing new, my friend." He answers, "Her Majesty the Regent continues to ignore the importuning of King Philip over the matter of the Reformation in the Low Countries, though I have no doubt that she would think otherwise were it not for their Highness's existence."

The experienced Councillors exchange mildly irked glances: even now the validity of the marriage between the Queen's parents is questioned in some quarters. Had Elizabeth not borne sons, it is highly likely that the French regent would be far less reticent in her dealings with Spain, and that she would be attempting to enforce the distant claim of the Queen of Scots. After all the effort that was placed in securing the dismissal of that claim within the treaty of Cateau-Cambresis, it is most tiresome that it still remains in the minds of some of those who signed.

The door from the Queen's apartments opens, and all rise as Elizabeth enters. They bow their heads before she acknowledges them, and seat themselves as she does the same.

"Thank you, Gentlemen." She smiles at each in turn, and then switches her gaze to Dudley, "Sir Robert, welcome to my Council table; as my Master of Horse, it is your place to be here, and I am glad that you have taken your seat."

Reddening a little, he nods his head respectfully, "Thank you, your Majesty."

Something in his voice snatches at Richmond's attention, and he focuses more closely upon the young man. He is blushing somewhat, and that bombast that marked his arrival seems to have dissipated in an instant. As it is Northumberland's turn to speak, he stays quiet and watches Dudley carefully as the discussions commence.

Damnation; the youth has not taken his eyes from his Queen from the moment she entered the room - not once. Richmond may be elderly, but he has not forgotten the days of his youth, when his eye roved and the sight of a pretty face could captivate him. Now he understands why Dudley is dissatisfied with his marriage: just as he had once lost his heart to young Amy Robsart, he has now lost it in turn to the Queen.

This time, however, he has lost it to a woman that he cannot marry in foolish haste.

"And what news from France, my Lord Richmond?" Elizabeth's voice interrupts his reverie, obliging him to abandon his discovery and rejoin the conversation.

It is mere foolishness on the part of the Dudley boy, of course; and of little moment. No need to embarrass all by raising it. No, he shall keep a watch upon it and speak of it only if it becomes necessary.

* * *

"Sleep well, my precious highnesses." Elizabeth smiles as she gently kisses Edward on the top of his head, then does likewise to Henry, "We have had great games and jests this past week, and tomorrow we shall continue our journey onwards. If you are good, then you shall ride part of the way."

"I shall ride all of the way." Edward insists, drowsily, "Master Wynchcott says that my riding is coming on most well."

"So he tells me." She strokes his forehead, "He is pleased with both of you. Now, to sleep with you both; and I shall speak to Master Wynchcott tomorrow about how far you shall travel upon horseback."

Rising from the side of the large tester bed, she leaves Mistress Peake to see to the candles, and makes her way back to her own chambers. She has a feast to attend.

Anna is supervising the assembly of her ensemble this evening, and the choices that she has made are - as always - magnificently opulent, but also at the very forefront of fashion.

"Ouch!" Elizabeth snaps, flinching awkwardly as one of the dressers ties an undergarment, "Jesu, what has been set in this bum-roll? Wood?"

"My apologies, Majesty," Anna smiles at her, "The buckram is most stiff, for it is new. It shall soften as it warms."

The farthingale itself is also new: somewhat wider than that introduced from France by her mother when she returned to England, allowing the heavy fabrics of her kirtle and overgown to flare out rather more widely than was the case when the Queen Regent ruled the Court. The kirtle is, as is her preference, a rich ivory in colour, heavily embroidered with the rose of the Tudors, while the overgown is her favourite russet red. The sleeves are not too padded, but are elaborately quilted with raised diamond shapes, each with a small crown embroidered at the centre. The flattening stomacher is both embroidered and decorated with gems in gold filigree settings that her seamstresses have spent the last two days stitching to it. This evening, once she retires, they shall spend the entire night cutting the stitches again to return those gems to their locked coffer.

Such effort for a single night's entertainment. Still, better that than having a jeweller set them permanently into the garment.

Her hair has been artfully teased into a voluminous style that parts at her crown, with a fine gold diadem artfully set upon it, while her ears and neck are highlighted by delicate chains of gold from which are set deep red garnets to match her gown. All that remains to do is apply dabs of her favourite rose musk perfume, and all is done.

Philip awaits her, dressed in garments of a rich forest green, "_Sua Majestade._" He bows extremely floridly, and Elizabeth laughs at him, delightedly, "I am a primped and decorated creature who finds even movement a trial in such garments, but all shall see me and cheer, for I am the most beautiful creature in Christendom."

He takes her hand and leans in close to her, "Not half as beautiful as you would be were you not in those garments."

"Later, my love." She breathes softly.

Despite the opulence of the Court's garments, the feast itself is in keeping with the economies instituted by her mother: well presented, excellent in its quality, but not overmuch in its quantity. Her favourite dishes have been prepared for her, while even those at the lower end of the hall are served finer foods than would normally be the case. Above, in the gallery, her musicians are entertaining the assembly with rustic melodies performed on sackbuts and shawms, while young Tarleton jests in the centre of the hall. He snatches items from the tables to juggle, improvises ghastly doggerels for those whom he robs and even steals small morsels from the platters, which he tosses into the air to catch in his mouth to great applause as he chews each stolen prize.

As the throng retires to a canvas pavilion on the outside terrace, where the banquet has been laid out in an attempt to offer respite from the heat of the hall, Leighs catches up with Dudley, "So, _Sir_ Robert," He smiles, with remarkable cheer, "your rise to prominence begins. I am right glad for you - soon you, too, shall bear a barony and we shall show this Court who are the true talents of the government, shall we not?"

For the first time, Dudley's response is not qualified with a sense of bitterness, "That is indeed so, friend Robert; for we stand in the shadows of our fathers, but are set to emerge from them and - in time - eclipse them, I think. Now that I am upon the council, I shall see about pressing for your employment thereon; after all, you are of excellent political stock, are you not? Thus we shall pick up what our fathers set down, and prove that we are the greater than they." He hiccups slightly, partly from overindulgence of venison, partly from overindulgence of wine. While his imagination has been released from good sense, and his tongue has also been loosened somewhat, he is still in sufficient control of his faculties to know that such speech is not welcome in the Queen's circle. Thus his voice remains low.

Leighs nods, smiling slightly. He knows, just as Dudley does, that such talk is foolish given that both of them are untried in government; but to do so comforts his sense of wounded pride over his father's threat to remove his inheritance. What, after all, is wrong with a touch of fantasy? Perhaps in time they shall lead the Queen's government; but while their fathers do so, they cannot.

Supping at the free-flowing hippocras, Dudley's speech becomes a little slurred. Being far less intoxicated, Leighs grows concerned at the direction that his friend's conversation is turning, and carefully guides him out of the pavilion to a distant spot on the terrace, "God above, she is a beauty." Dudley mumbles, "I wish that I had not seen the wretched, insipid creature to whom I tied myself before I could have played for the better prize."

Leighs shrugs, "Then make her your mistress, whoever she is. I have done so in the past, and my hypocrite of a father did so also when he was in his youth."

"Nay; I could not impose such a wanton state upon her. If she were to be mine, it would be as a wife, not a whore."

"Then who is this wench?"

Dudley does not reply. For all his drunkenness, he is not fool enough to let _that_ be known.

"Ah well. Moon over her like a lovesick pup as you will, my friend. Sometimes it is more of a pleasure to sigh for love that is denied, than to win it, I think." Leighs looks up as people exit the pavilion to return to the hall, "Come, it is better that we return with the rest of the Court; besides, I am told that the Earl of Oxford's Men have travelled here to perform for us. Perhaps some bawdy repartee shall distract you from your unrequited passion."

Linking arms, partly out of a sense of camaraderie, partly to prevent Dudley from missing his footing, the pair turn to follow the Court back inside.


	5. Clement's Joy

**A/N: **Thank you everyone for your patience! I have - at long last - completed this story, which is remarkable given how short it is compared to the tale that preceded it. The chapters are all uploaded and ready to post, so on we go!

If I am to be completely honest, the location of the next chapter is a touch implausible as it's far too small to host a royal progress; but I've always loved the gorgeous little moated manor house of Ightham Mote, and when I returned to Kent on holiday last year, it was one of first locations I visited. It is, like Knole house, in the hands of the National Trust, so it's open to the public. If you ever get the chance to visit Kent, I urge you to stop here. It has a warm intimacy that is hard to beat, and, being a National Trust property, serves superb scones in the cafe.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

_Clement's Joy_

The approach to Sir Richard Clement's secluded home would normally be something of a rutted track leading from the road from Sevenoaks. Their stay at Knole has been a short one, as the roof is in something of a state of disrepair, and Elizabeth is grateful that the small manor of Ightham Mote nearby has been made available for their next stop of a longer duration.

Rather than picking their way between mud and ruts, instead the route has been paved - albeit rather roughly - with stones tamped into the ground in imitation of the rather better laid roads that run between the larger towns. Enormous oaks rise either side of the pathway, their branches setting a dappled shade over the heads of the entourage that is intermittently lit by shafts of sunlight from the cloudless sky overhead.

Blackbirds scatter from the branches and hedges, their clattering alarm calls causing rabbits to flee hither and thither in a dance of leaping scuts that seem to jump like bouncing lights with each bounding hop.

The head of the procession is the Queen's guard, bearing arms and banners to announce her passage, while she rides alongside her husband to their rear. Behind her are Edward and Henry, astride their ponies and led by a groom as neither boy is _quite_ experienced enough to keep their mounts in the line. Then come the lords of the council, Northumberland and Richmond - escaping from his carriage for the final stretch - at their head, while the ladies of the Queen's household, and the King's Gentlemen bring up the glittering rear. Chamberers and maids are travelling with the baggage train, and are already awaiting their arrival.

At last, the tunnel of trees clears, and Philip calls back to his sons, "There, my boys - see where we are to rest our heads for the coming ten days!"

Before them is a low-built manor house of considerable age; a remarkable hodge-podge of building styles all set in a square around a courtyard and surrounded by a moat. He smiles to his wife at the excited exclamations of the boys. Indeed, so delighted are they at the presence of the moat, that neither of them show disappointment at the considerably smaller size of the house in comparison to the homes in which they are usually billeted.

"I suspect that the multiplicity of passageways between the rooms shall entice them to explore quite readily." Elizabeth smiles at Philip, "Indeed, I rather look forward to the smaller spaces in which to live; there are times when the grandeur of the palaces feels considerably overdone."

She looks back over her shoulder to Northumberland, "Have the works to accommodate the column outside the house been paid for?" She is, not surprisingly, concerned that their host not be put to undue expense by their invasion. There is the honour of hosting, yes, but that should not lead to penury upon the party's departure.

"Yes Majesty. I believe that those who are not part of your Majesty's immediate entourage are to be accommodated in canvas pavilions in the main parkland. Sir Richard has seen to the construction of a covered walkway from the camp to the house, and for a larger pavilion nearby to accommodate all for meals, as the hall of the House is too small to serve. Your Majesties shall - in the main - take your meals there; but there shall be some larger feasts to which many of the local nobility are invited that you shall attend while we are in residence."

There is insufficient space in the courtyard to accommodate the arriving party, so Sir Richard and his family have come out to greet them. As she is assisted to dismount, Elizabeth smiles to watch the group bow or curtsey according to the requirements of their sex. Sir Richard himself is quite short and rotund, with a greying, bushy beard and twinkling eyes, while his wife Anne is considerably younger in age, but has a warm, kind air about her that suggests their marriage to be more than of mere convenience. She has also provided him with a brace of sons, and a tiny daughter of no more than two years who nestles in her nurse's arms.

Taking Philip's arm, Elizabeth approaches the family, "Sir Richard, Lady Anne - thank you for your kind invitation. We look forward most heartily to our stay with you."

Clement leans forward to kiss her ring as she extends her hand, "Your Majesty, the honour is entirely ours. Welcome to our humble Manor. There is sweet wine and a light repast of amusements awaiting your Majesties and the Councillors in the Hall, where I have engaged a consort of musicians to entertain you while your chamberers complete the preparation of your chambers. There is ample water heating in the coppers should you require to bathe."

The hall is indeed rather lacking in space - but there is more than enough room for the family and the principal guests to be seated for meals. A large window looks out upon a courtyard surrounded on all sides by the wings of the house, while a small applewood fire scents the room from a great fireplace opposite. The dark wainscoting on the walls smells freshly oiled and polished, while above, atop a small gallery, a consort of viols is performing.

Behind her, Elizabeth can hear the twin thumps of Richmond's sticks as he limps in behind her. Northumberland is, as always, at his side, but the Queen is quick to to respond to her Chancellor's obvious stiffness and exhaustion, "Come, my Lord Richmond. Be seated - a Courtier of your stature is not obliged to stand in my presence, for you are far too valuable to the realm to be naught but a mere man."

Such a diplomatic means to persuade an old man on tottering legs that he should sit down before he drops.

"My Lord of Northumberland, I should be most obliged if you could see to the wants of his Grace of Richmond? I am sure that a cup of hippocras and a few morsels of victuals shall serve to restore him."

"Of course, Majesty; I shall see to it."

Anna is on hand to remove Elizabeth's riding gloves and cloak, and the royal couple are soon free to sample an array of excellent little amusements: liver paste upon wafers, small pastries filled with forcemeat, sugared fruits and other dainties alongside hippocras and light cordials for the princes. Edward and Henry are already forging a fast friendship with Clements's sons, Peter and James, both of whom are of the same ages. To Elizabeth's surprise, and relief, the boys are not insistent upon their titles, and the foursome have almost immediately begun to refer to their guests as 'Ned' and 'Hal'.

After an hour of light conversation, a steward approaches Lady Clement, who nods at his message, "Your Majesties, your chambers are prepared, it would be my honour to escort you."

Relieved, as she is tired from the long ride from Knole, Elizabeth takes Philip's arm, "Thank you, Lady Anne, I should be delighted. Lead on."

"Jesu, Robin, cease your grousing!" Warwick is annoyed again by his brother, "We are _all_ accommodated under canvas - only father and the Lord Chancellor have been granted chambers in the house. What is wrong with this pavilion? You and Lady Dudley have a comfortable bed, a stove to warm you and ample space for your coffers - as have we all. You have received a knighthood, not a crown. Share your wife's pleasure at your surroundings and the joy of being permitted to travel with her Majesty - or is that a challenge that you cannot stomach?"

Dudley reddens under his brother's onslaught, but does not argue. He has no grounds to do so, after all: Henry is right. Across the canvas space, Lady Dudley sits in a chair, cheeks flaming, and clearly wishes that she were not witness to such embarrassing behaviour on the part of her husband.

"What is it, Robin?" Warwick's tone eases; he recalls a time when his brother was not so arrogant as this, "Why does all that you gain from her Majesty grieve you rather than bring you joy? Our family is highly favoured - and your career is developing well for you have much to offer. There is ample time for you to achieve great things in her Majesty's Court. Patience, my brother - that is your greatest ally."

"It is nothing of note, brother." Dudley answers, "Forgive me, I am tired and perhaps that is the source of my sourness. An hour's rest or so, and I shall be more pleasant company, I think."

"Join us for supper, Robin. Their Majesties are not to sup with the Court tonight - there shall be no formality to observe and I am advised that our hosts' venison is of the best quality, and their ale is excellent."

"I shall do so." He agrees, then nods as his elder brother departs.

"It shall be most pleasant to dine with the family, Robin." Amy agrees, "If you wish it, I shall summon Matthew to assist you in selecting a suit to wear."

"Do as you will." Dudley snaps, crossly, "I care not. I shall be with my lord of Leighs; for at least he is sympathetic to my position."

"Robin…"

"Do not 'Robin' me, wife." The tone becomes a low growl, "You shall henceforth refer to me either as 'my Lord' or 'Husband'. There is no affection between us."

She watches as he stalks out of the pavilion, tears stinging her eyes. With no one else upon whom he can visit his frustration, it is inevitable that he would unleash his temper upon her; but there is something else now - as though his regret in marrying her has deepened into a wish that another was in her place. She feels a cold chill in the pit of her stomach; what is there for her if he opts to find a means of ending their union? She has no home to go to, none to whom she could turn if her husband turns her out in favour of whatever woman he wishes to wed.

They have no children - and he has not looked to her to conceive a child in near-on a year. Without a child, what can she do if he chooses to oust her? He has no grounds to do so, but why should that stay his hand? If a man desires to be rid of his wife, he shall always find a way to do it.

Suddenly, Lady Amy Dudley feels very, very alone.

* * *

The stag leaps from the thickets of the parkland and flees from the pursuing hounds, while the riders behind urge their horses on. As is often the case, Elizabeth is to the fore of the chase, her eyes alight with the excitement of the ride; while her husband matches her pace-for-pace, sharing her delight. Most are trailing in their wake, but a few of the younger bloods are close behind, while Dudley rides a mere two paces back. His expertise astride a horse is already well known, so that is no surprise; but he is sufficiently wise to know better than to outpace the Queen.

The stag is fit in wind and limb, and it takes the best part of a half hour to bring it to bay. As the host, Clement handles the crossbow, and - out of courtesy - passes it to Philip to dispatch the exhausted beast. He is not long about it, and as they retreat, leaving the carcass to the gamekeepers for removal to the larders, Clement turns to Philip, "The meat shall not be ready for your consumption before your departure, Majesty, but I shall ensure that it is sent on to Leeds to be enjoyed by her Majesty there."

"Thank you, Sir Richard; that is most generous of you. If the quality of the meat is equal to that of the venison that we were served last night, then it is a handsome gift."

"I have arranged for us to dine alongside the lake. It is a fair spot with shady trees all about, and a bowling green has been prepared should any wish to play."

"Excellent. For myself, I am famished - I have no doubt that her Majesty shall also be pleased to dine. Lead on."

* * *

The promised spot is a perfect choice. Awnings have been erected over tables where an excellent array of victuals has been set out, while a great side of beef has been turning over hot coals for much of the morning. Gaming tables are arranged under further awnings, while that same consort of musicians who had played in the hall upon their arrival are already at their instruments, entertaining Richmond, who is no longer able to ride at speed upon a horse, and has instead ridden directly to the site at a pace more suited to his aged limbs. Nearby, the princes and Clement's sons are engaged in a game of bowls under the supervision of Lady Anne and a tutor, which is hastily abandoned as the column arrives.

Dismounting, Philip turns to assist Elizabeth. While she is more than capable of dismounting from a horse, her heavy riding habit makes such a manoeuvre far more difficult. Instead, Dudley is there, "Allow me, Majesties." Already he is extending his arm to take the Queen's weight.

He is the Master of the Horse - and, as such, is one of those very few men who are entitled to handle the Queen's person in such circumstances. Nodding, Philip smiles at Dudley, and turns to greet his excited sons, "Aha, my boys! We have hunted well this morning, and now we shall feast!"

"Papa!" Edward laughs, while Henry leaps into his father's outstretched arms and is lifted into the air, "We have been playing bowls, Papa! I have won more games than anyone!"

"Excellent, my boy! Excellent!"

"Ned is nearly as good as me, Papa - but I am the best!"

Sharing in their jubilation, he allows the boys to lead him to the table where the best dishes have been set for them, while Dudley escorts the Queen behind them as the rest of the party continues to dismount. From his chair, Richmond watches them, eyes narrowed somewhat. Unlike all about him, he sees the act in a different light. While Dudley might have the right to assist the Queen from her horse, the manner in which he has done so is altogether more presumptuous than his predecessor's. Even as he accompanies her Majesty to the table to join her husband, his expression is intent, as though he is savouring every moment and intends to make those moments last as long as is possible.

She does not see it; her eyes are instead upon her sons and her husband; nor do any others. Irked, Richmond shakes himself: why does he see things in such a manner? It is naught but a foolish calf-love. Even men who are no longer in the first flush of youth can be captured by such foolish thoughts, after all. It is a harmless waking dream upon Dudley's part that - as long as he does not attempt to take matters further - shall eventually fade as another woman captures his roving eye. _Judge not, lest ye be judged_, he reminds himself, and reaches for a cup of claret.

Then he pauses; instead of leaving the Queen and retreating to re-join the rest of the Court, Dudley remains alongside her as she greets her children. If nothing else, _that _is a presumption too far; if he does not retreat soon, then the Queen, or the King, shall be obliged to invite him to do so - which would be a highly awkward scene. _Step back, you fool. That is not your place - step back!_ God, he wishes he could shout - but that would serve only to highlight Dudley's poor manners.

Fortunately, Ambrose Dudley calls across, "Robin! Lady Somerset's horse has thrown a shoe, we shall need to secure a fresh mount for her."

There is a sharp scowl upon Dudley's face, hastily quelled, and he turns to assist his elder brother. None but Richmond see it, for none but he were looking for it. Relieved that an embarrassing moment has been averted, he returns his attention to his claret. It might have been an unintentional error - but nonetheless he marks it. Should it happen again, then he shall have no alternative but to intervene.

* * *

_Dearest Mama,_

_We are most comfortable at Sir Richard's home, and he hosts us well. The chamberers are in the process of arranging the removal of items from the house to the baggage wagons, which shall depart for Leeds Castle in two days' time._

_Ned and Hal are both delighted in their adventures within the house and the gardens, for the young sons of the Clement Family are excellent youths who have made their guests welcome. I think it likely that they have shared favoured hiding places across the grounds, for they have come back from their excursions into the park in a truly unseemly state of dishevelment that has driven Mistress Peake to most amusing paroxysms of distraction!_

_I have found the privacy of the house a great joy, for most of the Court are housed in pavilions in the grounds. Thus Philip and I have found opportunities to dine alone together without fear of disturbance, and even to ride out in the park with far fewer companions that would be permitted should we be housed in a palace. I feel my love for him grow all the more in that freedom - there is not a day upon which I do not give thanks to God for granting me a husband such as he._

_I look forward to reaching Leeds to commence a merry summer of leisure in the company of his Grace the Earl, and you, Mama._

_Your loving daughter,_

_Elizabeth_

Philip leans over her and smiles, "No 'Regina' my beloved?" He is used to seeing her name suffixed with an 'R'. He does not normally see her letters to her mother.

"Never to Mama, Filipe," Elizabeth leans back against him, her free hand reaching up to stroke his velvet-clad forearm, "I am Queen of England, yes, but I am Mama's daughter before she is my subject. I shall dispatch it at first light, and it shall be in her hands before the day's end by fast horse."

His voice lowers, "I have dismissed your ladies."

"Have you indeed?" She carefully blows pounce from the letter and folds it, then reaches for a candle to drip wax to seal it, "Then how am I to be undressed?"

The wax drips, slowly, into a pool of ivory upon the paper as Philip carefully begins to unfurl her hair from the confines of its headdress, "I shall see to that, my Queen."

Her heartbeat quickening, she presses her signet into the wax, her heightening senses savouring the swelling of the displaced wax as the gold presses into it. Setting the letter in a coffer for the morning, she rises from her seat and reaches behind her head to guide her tresses away from the lacing of her overgown, "Then go to, my precious husband; Queen I am, but wife I shall be this night."

Pausing only to let his lips linger upon the back of her neck, Philip reaches for the cords, and begins the long process of unfastening them, "When you are clad only in jewels, you shall be Aphrodite made flesh, and I shall worship you as my goddess."

Sometimes she laughs when he speaks so, but not tonight. Tonight she is afire with longing and each moment that passes as he undresses her seems to heighten her desire all the more. Their lives within the palace walls offer few opportunities for spontaneity, and such a gift as privacy is not to be refused.

Her outer garments set aside, he reaches for her chemise, but she turns, "No, not yet; I shall serve you as you have served me." Already her long fingers are entwined in the buttons of his doublet and her lips seek his. Only when he is as free of garments as she is does she permit him to free her of that last covering, leaving her - as promised - clad only in jewels.

"Take me, my husband," she whispers, her breaths quick with desire, "love me as a woman, not as a queen."

He does not answer, but instead lifts her and carries her to the bed.

* * *

Mathias hunts through the Consort's garment coffers and sighs with frustration, "James, have you seen the miniature of her Majesty? I cannot find it anywhere - it is not upon his Majesty's dresser, nor is it in his jewel coffers. I do not recall his wearing it at any time since we left Eltham, but I cannot for the life of me find the damned thing!"

Such is the way of things when one is travelling in such volume, of course; items are regularly lost in the flurry of packing and unpacking that accompanies a progress. The loss of the miniature, however, is something of a blow, as his Majesty is fond of it, and tends wherever possible to carry it about his person.

"Nay, Mathias; he wore it upon the hunt two days ago. I recall setting the chain about his neck. Was it there when he returned to the house?"

"I do not recall it." The steward pauses, "Nay. It was not upon his person. Damnation, it must have fallen from him in the park."

"Then there is no means to find it now. Not without knowing the route that they took - and that was determined by the quarry and the hounds, so what can we do?"

The pair share a sad glance, for they are proud to serve the Consort of England and have no wish to disappoint him by losing his possessions. That it is likely that he lost the item himself is of little consolation, for they also know that he values it, "I shall inform him of its loss, James." Mathias says, quietly, "I know that he shall not berate me for it, but nonetheless, it is hard to tell him that it is lost."

Squaring his shoulders, he sets off in search of Philip.

* * *

Northumberland's expression is grim as he rises to address the small assembly of councillors, "I wish I were not required to do this; but I fear there is little choice. As all know, England's religious settlement has ever intended to permit those who wish to worship in the Catholic faith to do so, while those who choose the reformed faith are equally free from restraint. It is true that we have endured protestations from those who favour reform to quell the practice of the Catholic faith in England; but never before have our Catholic brethren sought to demand the opposite. It seems, however, that this is no longer the case."

Elizabeth stiffens a little, "Tell on, my Lord."

"During the reign of your late father, many of the brothers of the closed abbeys opted to depart England's shores to remain cloistered rather than accept the pension and re-enter the world. A number of these brothers took their order to Douai in the north of France, where - until recently - they operated their cloister without issue."

"Recently?" Richmond asks.

"It seems that, last year, they opened an English college for young men of the Catholic faith. While this, in itself, is of no concern to us, for there are no establishments in England for such men to enter the priesthood, their intention is not to support those who are presently celebrating the faith, but instead to return and find means of ensuring that England rejects the reformation and returns wholly to Rome." Reaching amongst his papers, he extracts a pamphlet and passes it to the Queen, "I fear that their intention is your deposition, to be replaced with the Queen of Scots, who is of more distant Tudor blood, but is not - forgive me, Majesty - a bastard."

Elizabeth says nothing, but all can see two flashes of livid red adorning her cheeks as her temper is sparked by such a suggestion. Instead, she reads the document several times, before looking up, "They are fools to attempt such a thing; the treaties we have made with the Scots, and with France, have negated that claim. Unless there has been a sea change in the attitude of our neighbours, they shall not succeed. England has lived free from the jurisdiction of Rome for so long that only those in their dotage remember a time when the Pope ruled even their anointed Prince. To demand that Englishmen subject themselves to a foreign potentate shall fall upon the stoniest of ground - they would be obliged to overthrow the Government of England to do it, and thus become invaders, not saviours."

"I am not aware of any specific discontent amongst your Majesty's catholic subjects," Northumberland continues, "The Council of the North has received no petition or representation of such nature; and there are no quarrels between those of the differing faiths."

Richmond sighs, "They are not in England, my friend. Thus they are insulated from the reality of life in England - and hear only that which they wish to hear from the Brothers, and from one another. It is ever so with young men - I recall being so during my youth in the Middle Temple. I was a truly pompous fool who thought himself to be more knowledgeable than any of his teachers - and my fellows were no better. Between us, we told ourselves that none were our equal; but we were fortunate in that time punctured our stupidity and granted us the maturity to appreciate that we did not know all things after all."

"Aye," Wiltshire agrees, "I have no doubt that my late father would agree with you - but in your case, you emerged from that foolishness without causing harm to the realm. If there are enough of these young men, and they are sufficiently fervent for their cause, then they could cause much harm."

"Indeed they could." Elizabeth says, quietly, "My Lord of Northumberland is right, for this pamphlet makes clear that England shall not be cleansed of sin until I, and all the fruits of my tainted womb, am eradicated in favour of a catholic replacement of Tudor blood."

"Mary of Scots." Warwick mumbles, "And what is her opinion?"

"She has offered none." Northumberland admits, "Perhaps we should request that Randolph seek it."

"If he does so, then it must be in an oblique fashion." Elizabeth looks up from the pamphlet, "I will not have it noised about that I am discomfited by this scurrilous document. My subjects love me as their anointed Queen, and I love them for it - regardless of the manner in which they address their supplications to God. I am not He, and thus it is not for me to make demands upon the souls of men. Unless there are overt incidents of treason, I will not oppress those who look to the old ways, and these foolish young men shall not drive me to amend that view."

With no other matters to discuss, the Queen rises and departs to join her husband and children in the gardens, while most of the councillors head back to their pavilions to change for dinner. Being unable to move quickly any longer, Richmond is the last to rise, and does so with Northumberland's assistance, while Wiltshire gathers his sticks for him, "Are we mistaken in our agreement to her Majesty?" the old man asks, quietly, "I am fearful that some fool or other might be inclined to act upon the exhortation to remove the heretics at the heart of England's government."

"I suspect it is too early to fear such a thing, my friend." Northumberland smiles at him as Wiltshire hands him his sticks, "Let us keep watch upon it, and enjoy the progress while we may. It is a matter that shall not fade - yes - but it is one that I am sure can wait for our return to London, for there is no indication that the college is encourage or supported by her Majesty the Regent."

"Then we shall mark it, and set it aside until the autumn." Richmond agrees, "Now, let us to our chambers to change; dinner is nigh upon us and I would prefer to be more appropriately dressed for it."

* * *

The grand pavilion on the lawn has been bedecked with green boughs and woodland flowers, while the canvas walls have been removed to leave only the roof: the warmth of the evening being such that to be enclosed would be most uncomfortable. The tables are decorated with wreaths of ivy and fragrant herbs, while a troupe of players have been engaged for the evening, and are already performing a bawdy dance in the centre of the space as the Court assembles to take their seats. It is their last evening at Ightham Mote, and Sir Richard has taken care to ensure that it is as memorable as can be achieved in the absence of an enormous fortune to build entirely new structures for the entertainment of his guests.

The high table rests upon a wooden dais, crowned with a separate arbour roofed with scarlet velvet and garlands of roses in red and white to honour the house of Tudor, while her Majesty's finest plate has been laid out ready for the victuals that shall emerge from kitchens that have been extended under canvas to accommodate the richness of the supper that is to be enjoyed this evening.

Assembled in the hall, Elizabeth, Philip and her most senior Lords shall process out to the pavilion accompanied by trumpets and drums. Such foolishness; but the Court of England is founded upon ostentatious display, and Elizabeth has learned well when to wield it.

Smiling, she takes her husband's hand, and looks up at him, "What is it, Filipe?"

He seems a little sad - not over a grave matter, but over something small, "It is naught of great weight, my love. I fear that my miniature has been lost in the midst of the hunt. My poor stewards wasted the best part of a day searching for it in the parkland and are most distressed over its loss. I besought them not to be so dismayed; for it is but an object. But nonetheless, I mourn its disappearance, for it is precious to me and a comfort in your absence."

"Then I shall sit for another, my love, and resume my place alongside your heart."

He smiles at her, "And I shall be content."

The procession is somewhat slow, partly to be stately, partly to accommodate the slow pace of the Lord Chancellor. The aromas of the coming supper waft across the open lawn from the kitchens, mixing with those of the evening blooms that give their fragrances to the last warmth of the day. Their way is lit by ranks of small tapers that twinkle like earthbound stars, while further tapers shine from every window in the range of the house facing the lawn.

The entirety of the assembly is upon their feet as the royal party enter, accompanied by Sir Richard and Lady Anne. Taking her place at the high table, Elizabeth out across the gathering, "My Lords! Ladies! I thank you for your patience and shall keep you no longer." She turns to the Clement family chaplain, who bows to her, then raises his hand to perform a blessing, "Holy Father, we give thanks for the life of our beloved Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, King Consort Philip and our dear princes Edward and Henry. Grant your blessings upon them, and upon your dutiful councillors. Also, we beseech thee to grant equal blessings upon her Majesty's subjects in hopes of a fruitful harvest to come.

"We give thanks for the victuals to come this night, and for the kind hospitality of Sir Richard and Lady Anne. May the Grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen."

All seat themselves, and only a few start in surprise at the sound of the trumpets and drums as the first remove is paraded in. A great boar, brought down by the gamekeepers three weeks back and now well flavoured by its hanging; sides of beef and haunches of Sir Richard's magnificent venison are set out at the tables, while a decoratively dressed peacock is set before the high table, returned to its skin and with all its great feathers fanned out behind it.

Seated with a far smaller portion than that which would once have graced his trencher, Richmond seeks out the Master of the Horse again, and sighs. The discontented Dudley seems very much to have forged a friendship with the equally discontented Baron of Leighs, and he is reminded of his words in the council meeting. The pair share their discomfiture, and thus have no opposing opinion to counter it. Ah well. At least Dudley is not making calf-eyes at the Queen. Instead, he breaks off his conversation periodically, and looks down at something that must be concealed beneath the table before looking up again and continuing. Jesu, has he caught the pox? Surely he would not be so intent upon his lap were he not afflicted with some uncomfortable itch in the codpiece…

The foolishness of the thought makes him snort with mild amusement, and he shakes his head at it, before reaching for another morsel and returning his own attention to his fellow diners.

The banquet is served in another pavilion, a short walk away in a sunken garden lit with flares. Seated upon a cushioned bench, Elizabeth nibbles at a small piece of marchpane and gossips lightly with her ladies and Lady Anne, while Philip talks of sporting pursuits with Sir Richard and Northumberland. Nearby, the consort of viols are performing again: a soft lilting melody that is not _quite_ drowned out by the conversation of the assembly, while Warwick cheerfully talks with Wiltshire about his intentions to renovate his manor house with the assistance of his wife.

"Talking of wives," he adds, "I am concerned at the countenance of my poor sister-in-law. I know not what has occurred between them, but Lady Amy seems fearful to even approach Robin." He frowns, then; "I know that Robin has tired of her - but he has never given her cause to fear him."

"I do not think it to be fear - not exactly," Wiltshire observes, "More a hesitance, as though she has been ordered not to speak to him, and does not know if the matter she must broach is of sufficient import to disobey."

Warwick shakes his head, disappointed yet again by his younger brother, "It is most frustrating. He was _insistent_ that they be wedded, and our father was reluctant in his agreement as he knew that Robin's wish was born out of a carnal desire for her. She is not to blame for his foolishness - but nonetheless she must bear the price of it. God's wounds - who would choose to be a woman?"

"We do not choose our sex, Harry; that is granted to us by God. It is the obligation of a woman to be subject to a man; and thus it is incumbent upon us to protect and nurture them. It is hard when a marriage does not succeed; and it seems to be so with him. Perhaps it is as well that her Majesty has brought Lady Dudley into the household of the Princes: he is less likely to be able to set her aside without causing a scandal - and thus her marriage is protected even if it be a joyless union." He pauses, "What _is_ he doing?"

"Hmm?" Warwick turns, mumbling through a sugared plum.

"Sir Robert: every now and again, he seems quite keen to step aside from the company and fumble for something about his person. He looks at it, then sets it back and returns to the conversation. That is the third time he has done it."

Warwick shrugs, "I suspect it to be a keepsake from a lover, Will. It would not be the first time - just as he was all afire for Lady Dudley before they wed, he has oftentimes believed that a foolish dalliance is the great love of his life, and becomes so utterly devoted to that dalliance that he seems unable to last more than a quarter hour without setting his eyes upon their countenance. Were we all not like that at one time? In his case, alas, he seems not to have grown out of such foolishness." He frowns then, "Nay, I am perhaps unfair upon him - for his passions have always been sincere, and it made him an excellent brother when we were young, for it made him a dutiful son. Perhaps his elevation shall grant him the maturity to restore his passion to that which is his already, rather than to desire more."

A steward interrupts the proceedings to advise that the supper has been voided, and that the pavilion is now ready for dancing and entertainments. Delighted, Elizabeth rises, "Then we shall dance." Without hesitation, she offers her hand to her husband, and the pair lead their guests back to the lawn.

Behind them, Dudley scowls at his wife, who has done nothing more than assume a place two paces to his rear, "Step forth, damn you; do you wish to announce your disfavoured position to all at Court? Jesu's blood!"

For the first time in the entirely of their marriage, Amy's eyes flash with temper, "I shall do as you command, _my Lord_, but do not expect me to be cowed by your craven cruelty." She hisses, softly, "Do you think I have not noticed what you conceal in your scrip? Or that I do not know it for what it is? It would behoove you to treat me with more courtesy; or would it be your preference for me to let _that_ secret out? I am no scholar, that I grant you; but I am equally no fool - does it amuse you to harbour a suit that is cold before it is even offered?"

He stops, and becomes very still.

"I am a dutiful wife, Robert Dudley, and I shall remain so for that is the vow that I made to you. But my silence comes at a price: the price of courtesy. Like it or no, you are bound to me by vows that you made before God. Until I came to Court, I knew only to be subservient; but no more. The Queen's favour, and the respect of her fellows, has shown me that I am a woman of substance, and thus I shall be cowed by you no longer. Each insult that you pile upon me brings you closer to the humiliation of discovery. Mark that well."

Dudley glares at her, "You shall not if I have you dispatched back to…"

"Back to where?" She snaps, softly, "To be palmed off upon whichever household shall have me? A Lady of the Queen's Household to be rendered homeless? You would have to ask her Majesty to dismiss me now - would you dare to do it?"

Silence.

"I do not demand your love, for I know I have it not." She finishes, "Nor do I demand pretence of it. All know that I am a regretted wife, so our pretence shall be that we tolerate one another with courtesy - and I shall most assuredly _not_ refer to you as 'husband' instead of 'Robert'."

Her eyes are diamond-hard; and he knows that she means every word. His expression a strange mixture of annoyance, and admiration, he accepts her hand and leads her back to the lawn.


	6. Reunion

**A/N: **Argh! Sorry! So much for regular updates. Thanks for your reviews and favourites, and huge apologies for taking so long to get another chapter out. I have no excuse, as they're all uploaded, so I'll settle for grovelling instead...

There is an ornamental garden at Leeds Castle through which a stream runs and that is overlooked by a large hill. You can walk through it from the visitor centre to the Castle if you don't want to go on the Drive or be transported using the visitor transport service. It's got a Japanese-ish theme to it, but I've revamped it to fit the period.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

_Reunion_

"All of the accommodation has been prepared, your Grace," Seton advises, running the tip of his quill down a list, "None of her Majesty's retinue shall be obliged to rest under canvas."

"Excellent, Thomas - I have no doubt that many of the Court shall have spent the last week so accommodated, and all shall welcome walls that do not flap in the wind." Anne's voice does nothing to betray her joyful excitement. For all their correspondence, letters are no substitute for spoken words, and she has not seen her daughter for nearly a year.

The larger chambers of the Gloriette are most telling of the open lives they are obliged to lead in the palaces, and how much she has valued the privacy that living at Leeds has afforded her in her freedom from such scrutiny. There will be no presence chamber there - a large chamber in the main house has been set aside for that - and the royal family can enjoy accommodation that is theirs, and theirs alone.

The senior courtiers, and councillors, are all housed in the main house on the second floor, while those of lesser state are to rest their heads in specially built, partitioned longhouses that stand on the other side of the gatehouse, near the lake.

The first of the baggage wagons arrived yesterday, and Elizabeth's great tester-bed is already installed in her bedchamber, while her favourite items of furniture have been arranged by her chamberers in a fashion that shall please her. Watching the procedure, Anne has taken note of her daughter's tastes, and her own staff have undertaken a hasty rearrangement of some of the wall hangings to match them.

Nearby, William sits at a writing table with some accounts, but is looking up at his wife fondly as she fails to conceal her excitement from him. From his expression, it is clear that Seton is not fooled either; but they know that Anne has waited for this day with great anticipation since she issued the invitation before Christmastide, and neither begrudge her that joy.

"Come, Anne; let us walk in the fresh air awhile. There is nothing more that can be done to prepare for her Majesty's arrival. All that we can do now is wait." William rises from his chair and takes her hand, forestalling her protest, "I know that it shall not hurry the train's arrival, but Matthew shall ride to advise us as soon as it is sighted, and that shall afford us an hour or so to complete our own preparations. All else is ready."

Their stroll takes them out into the parkland, and along the stream that feeds the lake to an ornamental water garden and grotto, planted in the spring and just coming into its best as the roses bloom in the dappled sunlight from a rank of beeches that surround the space. The grotto, a new fashion imported from France and Italy, has been carved out of an outcrop of rock that swells out of a steep hill overlooking the garden. Recessed deeply into the hillside, it is entered through a tunnel artfully carved to look as though nature had formed it, while the space within is lit with shafts from above and has been carefully lined to ensure that no irksome water drips from the roof upon those who sit upon the benches below. Niches have been carved into the walls to contain marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses, and the atmosphere is refreshingly cool, "I think this shall be a popular space should the weather become warmer." William observes.

"Warmer than it is now?" Anne smiles, her fan busy, "God forbid that it become warmer. It is quite warm enough as it is."

"Then we shall tarry here awhile." William guides her to one of the benches, "Her Majesty's retinue is not expected until later in the afternoon, so there is ample time for us to enjoy a morsel of dinner is there not? I have arranged for our victuals to be served to us here where the coolness is soothing; that, and some chilled ale, shall serve most well to prepare us for the onslaught to come."

* * *

As the column crests a hill, Elizabeth is hard put to stop herself from encouraging her horse to quicken to a canter above an already insistent trot. Another half hour, and she shall be in the company of her mother for the first time in more than a year. A woman grown she may be, but she is still a loving daughter as much as a mother herself.

"My goodness, my love," Philip smiles at her as her fingers tighten around the reins, "Any observer would presume that you are eager to arrive."

"I cannot imagine what would give such an impression, Filipe," she smiles back at him, but her eyes are glistening with joy, and his own smile widens at the sight of it. Does she know how much she glows with beauty when she smiles so? Probably not - but it is a secret that he is more than content to keep to himself and enjoy when he witnesses it.

"My Lord of Northumberland," he calls back, and waits until the Duke is alongside, "I should be grateful if you could direct the rest of the column to remain alongside the gatehouse while the royal party advances within. I fear that their Graces might be quite disconcerted should all enter at once."

Northumberland smiles, "Would it be preferable if the senior Councillors also remain without for the first half hour or so?"

"I should not object to that; but not too long, for his Grace of Richmond is likely to be most grateful to escape from the saddle in good time. Perhaps a chair could be arranged for him within the gatehouse with some warmed wine?"

Philip frowns slightly, "Is he unwell?"

"Nay, Majesty - it is merely that he is tired after a long day in the saddle as he hoped to not require the carriage for this final stage of the journey, and has instead proved to himself that he is less able to remain astride a horse than in years past. I must confess that I, too, would appreciate such a courtesy." He adds, smiling.

"That is a wise suggestion. Send a page forward to the porter's lodge to request seating for the senior councillors while her Majesty is greeted by their Graces."

"I shall see to it."

The long parade of horses clops its way along a well gravelled drive lined either side with magnificent copper beeches, while birds clatter noisily from branches with a multitude of alarm calls at the disturbance. From her vantage point astride her horse, Elizabeth can see glimpses of magnificent gardens between the tree trunks, and already her mind is alive with plans to explore them, arm in arm with her husband while their sons race ahead of them pell-mell in search of adventure. They shall find adventure aplenty in such enormous grounds, manicured or not.

The avenue of trees opens out into a wide vista of open grassland that has been prepared for bowling, archery and all manner of gaming, while a grand lake stretches towards the edifice of the great royal castle of Leeds.

The old apartments of Queen Eleanor stand to the rear of the main island, and Elizabeth eyes them with interest, knowing that they have been repurposed to accommodate her family with a degree of privacy that they can only achieve in one of the smaller of her grandfather's collection of grand houses. New chambers for the boys to explore…new views to enjoy from the windows…

Privacy with Filipe, of course.

She smiles to herself: A great deal of privacy.

The gravelled path leads them alongside the lake, causing the grazing ducks upon it to flee in all directions from the thundering hoofs and take refuge upon the water. Swallows flit hither and thither across the grass and the water in search of morsels for their chicks.

Behind her, Richmond eyes them, darkly, "That is not a good sign. I should rather they were higher."

Wiltshire looks at him, surprised, "Why should that be?"

"I know not - but our gardener at Rochford always used to say, _swallow high, staying dry; swallow low, wet 'twill blow_. A poor spell of weather shall be most discomfiting when there are such sports to enjoy upon that green behind us."

"If it be but a few days, I have no doubt that we shall find means to entertain ourselves. My father told me that her Grace was well known for her skill in devising entertainments of all kinds."

Richmond's expression suddenly turns wistful, "Ah yes. I recall evenings in her privy chamber, where your late mother would play the muselar and sing for us, and I, too, would risk my voice. There would be primero, and triumphs - and chess between her Majesty, as she then was, and his Grace of Essex. They were good times."

Wiltshire smiles fondly at the reminiscence of his late mother, "Good times."

"Golden times, I think. They were days of risk, and uncertainty; but those days forged bonds that remain strong even to this day. England is the better for it, as is her Majesty."

Richmond continues his reminiscences as the column passes under the great gateway of the outer gatehouse. To Elizabeth's surprise - and relief - a pavilion has been erected near the smaller lake, where chairs and tables have been set for those who are of high estate, but are not immediate family. The senior councillors shall be entertained in comfort while she is escorted into the inner ward with her husband and sons. As her Grace's nephew, Wiltshire is also a part of that fortunate band; though he is slightly delayed as he is assisting Richmond to alight upon a wooden mounting block before granting him his sticks to make his way to the pavilion.

Beyond the grand inner gatehouse, the island opens up into a wide formal garden, with another bowling green set to one side. The path from the gatehouse leads directly to the front of the Manor House…

It is all that she can do not to break into a run, for there they are. Dressed in a rich gown of tawny taffeta over a black kirtle embroidered with silver thread and seed pearls, Anne is arm in arm with her adored husband, and seems equally hard-put to restrain herself to do likewise. Despite the privacy of the meeting, there are proprieties to be observed, and thus the Queen and her consort ride forward with a formal slowness, while the Princes follow behind.

Anne has taken care to conceal her hair beneath a decorative coif of linen fringed with Flanders lace and gold chains, as there are now hints of white amidst those silver locks that might shock her daughter after a long absence. In defiance of those unmistakeable witnesses to her age, she sinks into an impeccable deep curtsey, while her husband bows deeply, "Your Majesties, welcome to our home. We are right glad that you have arrived well and in safety and give thanks to God for your presence."

"Thank you, your Grace." Elizabeth answers with equal formality, "We are most grateful for your kind invitation to host the Court, and look forward to our stay." God's blood, it is tiresome to be so formal! She must speak stilted words to the master of the house - when all she wishes to do is leap down from the saddle, fall into the arms of her mother and kiss her dear stepfather upon the cheek.

"Inside, my beloved." Philip smiles at her. He knows well her inner conflict.

"Come, Majesty," Anne continues, with that same infuriating courtesy, "There is rose-scented water to refresh you, and chilled cordials and ale. I have ensured that a selection of the finest sweetmeats are set out for you, and there are some amusements awaiting the attention of their highnesses."

The pair stand aside as Philip dismounts and assists his wife to do likewise, while Wiltshire aids Henry in dismounting - much to his disgust as Edward has done so without assistance.

"William," Anne steps forth to greet her nephew, "It is good to see you - how is your dear wife?"

"Most well, your Grace; thank you. It is her hope that she can make the journey from Beaulieu in a few weeks to join us."

"Then she shall be most welcome."

Safely inside, formality is quickly dropped and Elizabeth hugs her mother, "Mama, I am so pleased to be at your side again, have you kept well?"

"Most well, sweet daughter." Anne guides the Queen to a sideboard where a table has been set with the promised scented water, "It has been a hard few days - knowing that you are near, but being obliged to wait for your arrival."

Their conversation focuses on family, wellbeing and stories of the doings of the two households as Elizabeth washes her hands and dabs at her face with a cool cloth. Behind her, she can hear the disgruntled protests of the princes as Mistress Peake performs the same service for them, "Peace, your highnesses, or I might be minded to ask your grandmama to put away those amusements she has set a side for you!"

There is an edge of humour in her tone, for she would not do such a thing to two excited and tired boys; but they do as bid and submit.

"If you could follow me, Majesties," William says, standing aside from shaking Philip's hand enthusiastically, "I shall show you to your apartments."

Elizabeth smiles as he extends his arm to her, "I should be delighted, your Grace. Lead on."

* * *

The grand bedchamber for the Queen and her Consort is of magnificent size - for it has accommodated other Queens before this one. The walls are panelled with freshly oiled wainscoting, while rich tapestries of the highest quality adorn the barer walls above. They had been put there by Henry, of course; for his profligacy has not been repeated in Elizabeth's reign, but having been stored with great care, the cleaning has been a simple affair requiring only dabbing with fresh bread to absorb the surface stains.

The bed, of course, is Elizabeth's own, but it does not look out of place in such a grand chamber. Great closets either side of the chamber contain the separate wardrobes of the Queen and Consort, while a small passage leads to a separate space containing a tub for bathing and access to the garderobe.

"This is magnificent, Mama," she turns to Anne, "We shall be most comfortable here."

"The entirety of the Gloriette is at your disposal, my Elizabeth," Anne smiles, "The hall can accommodate the senior council to sup when required, or can be your private space to dine or sup as you desire. You have only to advise your Stewards of your wishes, and the Kitchens shall accommodate them."

Again, Elizabeth leans in close, "I have missed you so, Mama. Mother I may be, Queen I may be, but I am daughter too; and a daughter is ever lost without her mother."

"Aye indeed, my daughter; as I have missed you. For all the joy of my life with William, for which I give thanks to God each day, I cannot deny that there is a void in my heart that yearns to be filled by the presence of my own child, even though you be grown to womanhood."

"Then we shall be together for the whole of the summer until we are heartily tired of the sight of each other." Elizabeth laughs.

"Mama! Mama!" Edward's voice echoes down the outer passageway from their chambers, "Look! See what Grandmama has given us!"

Elizabeth smiles to her mother: she knows what they have received for she permitted it, "What is it, Ned?" She turns and arranges her face into an expression of intrigued enquiry.

"See!" Edward is now at the doorway, his eyes alive with excitement, while a small foxhound pup bounds about his feet, "Hal has one, too! We shall have such games!"

"How delightful!" She laughs, "I also once received two dogs while on progress, and they were great companions to me - he is a handsome boy, is he not? Now you must grant him a name!"

Immediately, Edward frowns with concentration, "I shall think upon it, Mama." then he pauses and turns to Anne, "Thank you, Grandmama, he is a wonderful gift."

Elizabeth's expression changes to one of pride, for it is the first time that she has not been obliged to prompt her son to express gratitude for a gift received. No doubt she shall not be so fortunate with Hal, of course; he is still learning the importance of good manners.

"If it please you, Elizabeth," Anne turns to her daughter, "I shall see to the greeting and accommodation of your Councillors. I have arranged for the Court to sup in the great hall at seven of the clock; William shall return to escort you." Curtseying again, she steps back a few paces before turning to leave.

Philip takes Elizabeth's hand as her mother departs, "I do not need to ask if you are contented, my love."

"Indeed I am so." She smiles, "My only regret is that we may not sup in private with Mama and William this night. That shall be for the morrow."

She turns as her ladies file in, "Ah, excellent; I shall change out of this heavy riding habit. Is the russet taffeta brushed? I should prefer that to heavy velvet in this warmth."

Philip smiles and lets her go through to her closet chamber, "Mathias?"

"Here, your Majesty."

"Fetch out the ivory and black silk for me, would you?"

"Yes, Majesty."

The princes are already playing with their dogs in one of the lesser chambers as they emerge in their fresh clothing, and - unsurprisingly - Mistress Peake is already directing one of the chambermaids towards a small puddle armed with thick cloths and a bucket of steaming water.

"I fear there shall be a great deal of that in the coming days." Philip sighs, smiling fondly at the boys and their new pets, "Perhaps we shall be obliged to retain an unfortunate soul to attend to the cleansing of floors in the wake of the dogs."

"Ah yes." Elizabeth laughs, "I was more fortunate in that my dogs were free to roam in the gardens where such issues were less inconvenient. I shall see if Mama can arrange for them to be kennelled in a suitable spot that is easily reached by the boys where they can sport together without visiting damage upon our accommodation."

"That is most wise."

"I am a Queen. I am always wise."

* * *

Anne has taken great care to ensure that the Lord Chancellor's accommodation is the finest available after those chambers set aside for the Queen, "I am so pleased that you are here, Richard; we are the last of that gallant band that set forth to hold the Crown for Elizabeth, and it is a pleasure to know that we are - such as we are - together once again."

He smiles at her, "I, too, am pleased to be here, your Grace."

"Anne." She reminds him, "We share a rank and both married to others. Propriety be damned."

"Anne." He acquiesces, "I have been feeling my age of late, and it is good to pretend to myself that I am young again. I fear that hunting is beyond me; but if I can be granted a comfortable seat to watch as others bowl or shoot, I shall be content."

"If it please you, we can ride at a slower pace in the parkland when the weather is suitable. It would please me to reminisce of those days."

"I should like that." He agrees.

She pauses, and eyes him more closely, "What ails you, Richard?"

"It is nothing of great account."

"Nay my old friend; brimming eyes do not speak of no great account. What has brought sadness to you?"

"Matters of family," he admits, "My heir is keen for me to die in order to bring forth his inheritance."

Anne's eyes narrow, "Is he truly so ungracious?"

"I was, once. It is no surprise to me that my son should be the same."

"That is not acceptable. Is he here?"

Richmond nods, "He has found friendship in the company of Sir Robert Dudley - who seems equally discontented with his lot in life. I have made it clear to him that if he chooses not to treat me with respect, then he chooses not to inherit my estate; though I should wish it otherwise - for I have lost several of my sons and should prefer it if our relations were better."

"Perhaps it shall be possible to find a means of mending those relations while you are here."

"That is to be hoped for. I have arranged for his wife and their children to join us in a few weeks' time."

"Then they shall be warmly welcomed, and I shall see to securing suitable accommodation for their arrival. Put it from your mind, Richard; we shall sup this night and end the evening with games of primero as once we did when I was England's Regent. I have no doubt that we shall find the time to bring recalcitrant sons to heel in due time. Until then, let us enjoy a summer of pleasure and friendship as once we did in times past."

He returns her smile as she places a light kiss upon his cheek, "If all is broken, my friend, then perhaps, here, we shall mend it."

* * *

Old habits die hard. In spite of the fact that she is now in her mother's household, Elizabeth is held captive by the requirements of protocol and thus is dressed in forest green velvet over a russet kirtle. Her stomacher is stiff with jewels, while her sleeves are embroidered into puffed diamonds with thick gold thread - a pearl sewn into each individual diamond. Her red-gold tresses have been teased into curls secured with gold pins, with a small set of ringlets that trail over her shoulder in a most pleasing manner.

Beautiful, yes; but _Jesu_, it is most damnably hot.

Anna is already dabbing powdered eggshell upon her dewy forehead, "I fear, Majesty, that the evening is rather too warm to succeed against all my ministrations."

"That is the way of things, Anna." Elizabeth agrees, shifting uncomfortably, "My one consolation is that, by the evening's end, none of us shall notice the reek of sweat-sodden flesh, for we shall all be contributing to it." She laughs as Anna wrinkles her nose.

"Ah; you are truly a vision of royalty, my beloved Lizzie." Philip smiles as she enters their privy chamber, her thick dress rustling, and the chains of her jewels clinking against her pearls, "I think perhaps a suit of full armour might permit me to be equally loud in my approach."

She is not offended by his comparison; it is not the first time that she has been compared to metallic male attire, and his own garments are hardly less elaborate. For a moment she is distracted…God above, he is beautiful…

"Later, my Queen." He whispers, softly.

The pair turn at a discreet knock upon the door. Mathias, who has witnessed enough of their softer discussions to not be embarrassed by them, crosses to answer it and admits William into the chamber, whereupon he bows formally, "Majesties, I am come to escort you to supper."

Elizabeth takes his arm and plants a kiss upon his cheek, "Thank you, William. Lead on."

He smiles at her, "I promise your Majesty that upon the morrow, you and his Majesty shall be free to sup in private. We shall oblige you to attend upon the Court only as you wish."

Once across the covered bridge that links the Gloriette to the main house, William steps aside and hands Elizabeth to her husband, before bowing and indicating a large door watched by two of the Queen's Guard. One of them turns and smartly opens it, whereupon the chief Steward of the Queen's household bows, then turns and announces, "Her Majesty the Queen!"

The blare of trumpets almost - but not quite - drowns out the rumble of benches being pushed back as all in the hall rise to greet her. Instinctively, her back straightens, and her carriage becomes truly regal as she is escorted by her husband to her seat upon the dais, where her canopy of estate has been erected. She can see her mother already waiting, her seat directly to the right of the royal seat, while William will sit to Filipe's left with her most senior councillors set either side.

From her vantage point alongside the Queen's seat, Anne watches with maternal pride as her daughter approaches with all the stately formality that is required of England's Prince. She is truly radiant: glowing with a multitude of jewels, but also with the joy of being surrounded by those whom she loves and trusts the most. _Henry would have been truly proud of his daughter…_

At least she hopes he would. By the end of his life, it was impossible to know whether his deep loathing of his wife had translated into disdain for his child: he had died before he could ever have shown her whether that was so. Sometimes she wonders whether her memories of her long-dead husband are coloured by that slow discovery that her love for him was as much a construct as a reality; but what does it matter now? He is gone - she is here. Her daughter rules England and has provided her realm with the sons that her mother could not. That, if nothing else, would have won at least a measure of regard.

The first remove is an array of the finest of the Estate's provisions: sides of beef, haunches of venison and flocks of capons are set for every table, even those of the lower courtiers who have travelled with the column, and would normally never enjoy the finer meats served to those closer to the high table. Mounds of the finest manchet bread and dishes of fruited frumenty are set alongside to sop up the rich sauces that coat the meats, and everyone sets to with a will.

Anne smiles as Elizabeth is served a portion of venison, for she has taken care to ensure that the dish set before the Queen is one of her favourites. Garnished with slivered almonds and edible silver leaf, it is ridiculously ostentatious; but her daughter's expression shows well that she appreciates that her mother has served it to her in jest. From the morrow, she shall be contented to sample far less decorated victuals.

"Is the fare to your satisfaction, my Queen?" she asks, a twinkle in her eye.

Elizabeth swallows her mouthful, "Most satisfactory, your Grace." The corners of her mouth twitch with amusement, "Perhaps a little less silver next time?"

"Goodness, yes. I am truly at a loss to understand why anyone should wish to consume a precious metal in so trivial a fashion; though perhaps that is a hypocrisy upon my part - for I did so once with much enthusiasm, for it showed me to be a woman of much substance." Her expression becomes rueful: there is no denying her delight in display to a degree that seems now to be utterly meretricious was extensive. She still recalls the late Earl of Essex's mild reproof over an overabundance of ostrich-feather fans.

"I trust that today's display shall not be repeated? I find silver in too great an amount does not agree with my constitution." Elizabeth is smiling, "Though venison of this quality shall not go amiss."

Such trivialities…but there shall be ample opportunity to speak more openly over the coming weeks, and she is content to play the game until then.

As the second remove is fanfared into the hall, Anne's attention is caught by an odd movement at one of the nearby trestles. Most of those present are applauding delightedly at the parade of pies, jellies and clear broths as they are delivered to each table, but one is not. From his chain of office, she recognises that she is looking at Robert Dudley; but, far from enjoying the display, he seems intent instead upon the top table. Perhaps it is envy; for both his father and eldest brother are seated with the senior councillors, while his wife has won the privilege of personally seeing to the Queen's needs at the table this evening. From the rumours she has been able to overhear even in the short time since the Court arrived, she is aware of his jealousy of Northumberland, Warwick and Lisle, even though he has achieved a court appointment ahead of his elder brother Ambrose. All Courtiers are ambitious - why else would they be here, after all - but it seems almost as though Robert has nursed it like a favoured toy with which they are loath to part.

Then she looks to Dudley's left, and sees a fair haired man who strongly resembles her Lord Chancellor as he was when first they conspired for Elizabeth's future. Yes, that is Robert Rich of Leighs - but, as much as Dudley studies the high table, Leighs firmly ignores it - and she is quite convinced that he has done so from the moment he arrived. Jesu, they shall be most tiresome for all if they cannot be brought out of such foolishness.

Nay - enough of such matters. As soon as the banquet is served, she shall put such thoughts from her mind; she has not yet had the opportunity to spend time with her daughter for more than a few minutes. Tonight, that will be rectified - and she shall enjoy every moment of it.

* * *

"I fear that I have eaten far too much, my Queen." Philip sighs, "I think it fair to state that their Graces have entertained us most well this night." He turns and bows floridly to William, who laughs, "I am delighted to have been the source of your discomfort, your Majesty."

"Perhaps some hippocras, Filipe," Elizabeth sympathises, though her tone is one of jest as well, "I presume that you have taken the time to close your stomach? This is a most expensive carpet."

"I have indeed, my beloved - though I am as poorly disposed to cream cheese as his Grace of Richmond. Now, get you gone with your mother. I am keen to know more of his Grace's fine kentish hounds, and I have no doubt that such discussions shall be of less interest to you than conversation with her Grace."

She squeezes his hand, "Indeed so." She turns to Anne, "the light is good still, Mama; shall we walk in the gardens awhile?"

The sun is low in the sky, but there is still ample light to see their way as they walk, arm in arm, along the paths of the parterre garden. The fragrance of the flowers is still lingering after the day's warmth called it forth, while cool fingers of breeze waft across the island, "Are you happy my Elizabeth?" she has seen it in ample measure, but Anne has lived almost her entire life with her daughter's wellbeing at the forefront of her thoughts, and old habits die hard.

"Truly, Mama. Truly. Filipe has brought me great happiness, while my sons are a daily joy. I have the wise counsel of truly loyal men and England is at peace. Each morn, I greet the dawn in the arms of my beloved, and what better thing is there in the world than to know that one is truly loved?"

_As I learned only when I married my dear William_. Anne thinks to herself, "I am right glad of it, my darling. If your time here serves to bring greater joy in such fair circumstances, then I shall also be greatly content."

"And what of you, Mama?"

"As you know joy, so do I. I could not have been granted a greater gift than to be married to William; for he is not merely kind and gentle, but also true in his love for me. I thought, once, that I could not love again - for to do so might impact upon your good name. To be proven wrong in such a belief is a wonder, and I have never regretted a moment of our marriage."

"Might I ask a favour, Mama?" Elizabeth asks, suddenly.

"Of course, my dear daughter."

"My council is considerably reduced at this time; but there are matters pertaining to religion that are of great concern to me. I should greatly appreciate your counsel upon these matters - so I would ask both that his Grace of Kent resume his place upon the Council for the time that we are here, and also that you take a seat at the Council table in equal part. You ruled England at a time of religious strife, and thus I should value your participation and knowledge - for while I have his Grace of Richmond, I lack the wisdom of his Grace of Essex. To restore two columns of that first political bastion would be helpful to me."

"You would welcome a woman to the Council table?" Anne asks, surprised.

"You were once at the head of that table, Mama - why would it be strange that you return to it? Besides, as I said; you have experienced times of religious strife, while I have not. It would be foolish of me to ignore that experience, would it not?"

Anne sighs to herself, "I had hoped that this summer would be a time of leisure for you, my Queen."

"There shall be ample time for that, Mama; I have no doubt of it - but nonetheless, I must continue to govern even as I spend time away from London. It would be of great benefit to England, I think, if I could do so with you at my side."

"Then I shall do so, my Elizabeth. Willingly and with joy, for I am glad to serve."

"And you have missed doing so?" Elizabeth asks, mischievously.

"That, too."


	7. Work, Rest and Play

CHAPTER SEVEN

_Work, Rest and Play_

As Richmond had feared, the weather has turned this morning, and a thick drizzle shrouds the parkland in mist. Ever aware of the vagaries of English weather, however, Anne has taken care to ensure that the long gallery on the first floor of the main house has been well provided with amusements. Her Majesty's ladies take their turn upon a fine set of virginals, while tables for shovelboard and billiards stand in the vestibules at either end, where the curves of the great oriel windows provide sufficient space - and light - for ease of play.

A number of card games are in progress, here a hand of triumphs, there a hand of primero; while Richmond is, as he once did with Elizabeth and little Jane Radcliffe, engaging the princes with instruction upon the ancient game of hnefatafl. In the absence of a blood-related grandfather, they have rather adopted the elderly Lord Chancellor into such a capacity, and listen with fascination as he guides their moves.

The accumulation of bodies has rendered the need for fires unnecessary, and none burn in the grates. Instead, Anne sits alongside the main fireplace with Elizabeth and the pair embroider together, gossiping quietly over matters of little substance as though they were naught but a pair of idle gentlewomen with no responsibilities of State upon their shoulders. Across from where they sit, William is talking to Philip and Wiltshire over a large, recently commissioned map of England, examining it with fascination and pointing out cities and towns in each county as though they were schoolboys seeing such a thing for the first time. She smiles fondly; William seems almost instinctively to know what shall interest the Consort of England, for she remembers Philip's interest in the realm that his wife rules from the moment he first set foot upon England's shores in the Pool of London, all those years ago.

The virginals fall silent as the coranto that was being played finishes, and Elizabeth looks up, "I am minded to try the instrument, Mama; it has an excellent tone."

Anne's smile widens; she is well aware of her daughter's skill upon the virginals, and Elizabeth's intent to play saves her from the awkwardness of dropping hints that she do so. As she rises from her seat, her ladies are already hastily fetching out her book of favourite pieces to set upon the instrument, while all in the gallery pause their gaming and gossip to watch. Even were it not good manners to do so, only those most close to her Majesty would normally be granted the opportunity to hear her play the virginals; and most in the gallery are not so fortunate.

Her choice is a short alman, written by a young London man by the name of Byrd and - perhaps a touch presumptuously - named 'the Queen's Alman'. The piece shows much accomplishment on the part of the composer, and those who know of such matters have recommended to the Queen that he is likely to progress well in his chosen sphere.

The tune itself is quite simple, but the true measure of the ability of the player rests in the elaborate ornamentation of that tune, with runs, trills and swift passage-work that displays to all of Elizabeth's talent for the instrument. There are one or two minor errors in places, for she has not played the piece in some months; but the music that flees from the soundbox to the ears of the surrounding audience is a joy to hear. Anne finds herself trying to swallow down a lump in her throat: such talent, God above, she is a magnificent woman.

A hand rests upon her shoulder from behind and she smiles as she catches the fragrance of her husband's clove-spiced vetiver scent, "She is a wonder, my beloved. An accomplished Prince of Christendom in all things."

"Sycophant." She smiles up at him, but her eyes glisten with loving pride for her daughter, and he returns that smile.

Seated at the table with the Princes, Richmond also watches with pleasure; for he has seen this woman grow from childhood to such accomplishment. Beside him, the two boys are equally entranced, for they are usually long abed before their mother seats herself at the virginals. Sighing sadly to himself, the Chancellor lifts his gaze to where he can see his own son. For once, Robert is equally held by the display of musical skill by his Queen; and - for the first time Richmond can recall - has softened his expression from that constant glower of discontent. Perhaps the example of his Queen might persuade him to abandon such tiresomeness…

Then his eye is caught by Dudley. Jesu - no…he is almost afire with longing, the older man can see it: quickened breathing, flushed cheeks, widened eyes. There is no other woman in his line of sight - he can only be looking upon the woman at the virginals. What is _wrong_ with him? She is the Queen! She is married to a man whom she loves deeply! Thanks be to Christ that all eyes are upon her Majesty - if others were to see him now, then their eyes would almost certainly be flying down to the codpiece, seeking evidence of an untoward swelling there. It takes all that he has in him not to do so himself.

He is not overly surprised when Dudley excuses himself and flees. Even if he does not recognise that his hot ardour is utterly inappropriate and a warning that he must rein in his stupidity, there is still that awkward consequence of male desire to be dealt with. _That_ can only be achieved in private.

Richmond shudders to himself at the thought. For a moment he finds himself sympathetic to Dudley's plight; for he, too, was placed in such a position by the innocently comely wife of another man long ago when a youth. Dudley is no youth, admittedly, but to be so enamoured that his loins have betrayed him? God's wounds, that is a hard burden to bear. As long as he hastens to his quarters and dispatches that imp in private, then there shall be no harm; but perhaps it might be wise to take him aside while they have the opportunity to do so without alerting the sharp ears of the gossips.

Yes - he shall do that, as soon as the weather improves.

Elizabeth finishes the Alman, and he joins in the applause.

* * *

Dudley paces back and forth in his chamber, fighting down reminiscences of the Queen at the virginals, crowned with a halo of candlelight, her long fingers fleeing up and down the keyboard of that damned instrument…

And again that stab of desire, as his member twitches under the reminiscence of his imaginings over those long fingers upon it…

_Damnation!_ Shaking, he puts his head around the door, "Summon my wife!"

God above, if he cannot have the woman he desires, then he shall make do with the leavings. She, at least, cannot refuse.

He could have ended it in the privacy of the stool closet, dispatching his seed into the chamber pot - but his longing is not merely for that end, but for the warmth of a woman's private part enclosing him. Intimacy is of no interest now, just that animal act of carnality.

The door opens, and the Steward he dispatched looks in, "Forgive me, my Lord; but my Lady Dudley is with her Majesty who craves your indulgence in seeking to keep her at her side."

Dudley stares at him, thunderstruck, "She is _not coming?_"

"She intended to, but…but…her Majesty required her to stay." Had he been less infuriated, Dudley might have noticed that the man's knees are knocking, "It was most assuredly her intention to obey your summons."

In an instant, all that swelling ardour is quelled, as though the steward had upended a pail of icy water upon his head. Damnation! And yet, all his fury at being so denied remains, but transformed into a cool excitement at the impertinence of a woman granted such power over men. Rather than fling some item or other at the cowering steward, he starts, slowly, to laugh. Such fire! Such determination! God above she is magnificent!

Dismissing the fearful man at the door, his hand returns to his scrip. Fetching out the miniature of the Queen that he found so fortuitously at Ightham Mote, he feasts his eyes upon her fair - albeit painted - countenance. A woman of such strength deserves a man of equal strength…one day…one day…

Sighing with unrequited longing, he returns his treasure to his side.

* * *

The rain does not let up for two more days, and Anne is finding herself running out of entertainments for the Court. William has obtained a short play from the Earl of Oxford's men, which he has handed to those whom he feels most secure can perform a masque as well as possible, and all are amused by the sight of various Courtiers concentrating upon written papers, committing their parts to memory. They shall perform at the end of the Queen's stay, so there is plenty of time for them to do so.

This morning, however, the sun has risen into a cloudless sky, and the Court have fled outside to enjoy its warmth. Many are out riding in the great park, while the older Lords are seated near the lake, where some of the ladies undertake a game of bowls with a great deal more gentility than men might do.

Taking a spare seat alongside the Lord Chancellor, Anne sits beside him under an awning and returns his smile, taking his hand, "Did I not promise that we would sit together and reminisce, Richard?"

"That is so, my lady Anne. I thank you for your kindness in granting me a space to sit and watch others sport. The time when I could do so is long gone, and I think now I appreciate truly the discomfort of our late friend of Essex when I am obliged to walk."

"I miss him." Anne says, quietly, "Even now, after six years, I mourn his loss."

His hand tightens upon hers, "As do I. For a man whose friendship I sought out of a necessity to preserve my life, I gained a valuable ally and companion. There is no man alive whom I trust more than I trusted him - and I loved him as a brother. I think it might amuse him, but I pray upon the repose of his soul each morn even in defiance of his reformist sensibilities."

"And I think he should be most amused at such a discovery - I have no doubt that he shall share that jest with you when you are reunited at God's table." She pauses to look at his expression, "What is it, Richard? I may have been apart from you for some years - but you have ever been an easy man to read."

"It is of no consequence, my Lady," he sighs, "I was granted perhaps some small hope two days past in the Gallery as her Majesty entertained us upon the virginals, for that cold discontent upon Robert's face had eased. I thought it ever to be affixed upon his countenance for all the rest of his days. Perhaps I shall win back his love after all."

"That is my determined intent, my friend. An ungrateful child is a cruel burden, and one that should not be placed upon your shoulders."

"Ah - but I, too, was an ungrateful child, Anne." He reminds her, with a mild smile, "I shall leave a path to my door for him, but I shall not impose myself upon him. In spite of all, he is my son - and I love him."

"I think, Richard, that - while he would never admit to it - he loves you also. It is merely buried under a covering of foolish arrogance that maturity shall clear away." She turns and reaches for her lute, "I have brought us some entertainment, see? Even now there is no escape from my wish to play."

"Do not require it of me to sing, my Lady; my voice is long faded to a hoarse wheeze that shall destroy the magic of your talent."

They sit in silence awhile as Anne plucks delicately at the lute, its soft tones complimented by the song of a skylark high above their heads. Richmond closes his eyes and smiles at the memory of times years ago when he had been granted the privilege of listening to such music surrounded by friends. Had he thought himself to be no longer welcome upon the earth? Jesu, no. To willingly give up such pleasure as friendship and the warmth of a summer's day? Such a fool…this is God's gift to him, and he should not be so ungrateful as to wish to live no longer.

A shadow stretches over his eyes, and he looks up to see that Lady Dudley has crossed to them, "Forgive me, my Lady; but the princes have returned from their riding lessons and his Highness Prince Henry asks for you. He has taken a fall and seeks your comfort for his skinned knee as her Majesty is at the hunt."

She is paler than usual, quite a feat for a woman already very fair in countenance, except for a red mark upon her right cheek - as though she has been struck. Richmond frowns slightly, dredging his memory for moments where she has been present amongst the Court in the last two days. No, she has remained away from view - and then he understands. She has somehow offended her husband, and he has lashed out at her for that fault. Such is the right of a husband, of course; but he cannot imagine how Lady Dudley has achieved such a thing - she has been in the company of the Queen, and thus could not have acted in a fashion that her Lord and master would find so offensive.

Anne also looks at the younger woman with a mild frown, "Thank you Lady Dudley, I shall see to it. Perhaps you might wish to remain under the awning awhile? I can assure you that his Grace of Richmond is a gentle companion and far less dull than his grey beard implies." She smiles at him as he chuckles at her jest.

For a moment, Amy dithers - as she is often wont to do - but then impulsively curtseys to the two, "That is most kind of you, your Grace, I thank you."

"And I shall bore you with a lesson in the game of hnefatafl." Richmond smiles at her and indicates the table nearby.

Anne watches fondly as Richmond exerts all of his charm to ease the discomfort of the young woman so unused to Courtiers, then hastens back to the stables in search of her grandson.

* * *

Mistress Peake is holding a cold compress to young Henry's knee as he whimpers somewhat from the pain. Anne smiles at him as she approaches, "Ah, what has occurred, my dear grandson?"

"Naught but a minor fall, my Lady," Mistress Peake answers, "but the ground upon which he fell was rough with small stones."

Heedless of her skirts, Anne sits upon the mounting block and holds out her arms to take the child, "I, too, have fallen upon such ground, my little Prince," she soothes him, "it is most discomfiting, is it not? And all the more so if one has fallen upon one's feet, rather than from a horse."

Henry nods, then winces slightly as she lifts the cloth to reveal the bloody graze beneath, "Oh, that is most angry, my highness!" she observes, "Truly a princely wound: after all, it is incumbent upon Princes to do all to a greater extent than mere mortals such as I."

As she intended, Henry starts to laugh through his sniffles, "And I am a Prince, Grandmama!"

"Indeed you are! And I should be most dismayed if you could not create such a state upon your knee as those who are not Princes, my precious Highness."

Jesu, she has missed this…missed the pleasure of a child resting upon her knee. How long ago it is since her beloved Elizabeth was so small. If it were not for the tiresome backstabbing of any Court - even Elizabeth's - she would almost be willing to give up this joyful life in Kent to experience it again…

Instinctively, her arms tighten about Henry's shoulders and she kisses him upon the crown of his tousled head. In spite of his name - which even now gives her cause almost to shudder - he is precious to her; for there was a time when she wondered if Elizabeth could even keep her throne. God, if they had failed her, then she should not be nestling a grandson upon her knees.

"What is it, Grandmama?" Henry is look up at her, "Why are you crying?"

"It is naught but joy, my dear Prince, for I am so happy. You, and darling Ned, are gifts to us from God, and I give thanks to Him each day for you both." She regards him, "Now, shall we return to the house? I am sure that there are some rather fine fruit jellies awaiting the consumption of the Court for dinner - and I have no doubt that one or two shall not go amiss, shall they?"

Henry returns her smile, and the conspiratorial air that goes with it, "Yes please, Grandmama."

"Then let us go." Anne looks across to Edward, "Highness, we have a plot afoot - we hunt, and our quarry is within the kitchens, shall we go to?"

* * *

When Anne and William make their way through the covered passage to the Gloriette, they usually do so in order to speak to Seton, but not this evening. While Elizabeth and Philip have supped in private almost continually since their arrival, with one or two visits to the hall each week when guests have been invited, they have done so as a small family. Aware of her own preference to pretend that she was a simple gentlewoman dining away from the scrutiny of a Court, Anne has regularly declined her daughter's invitations to intrude upon their time of equal freedom.

Tonight, however, that invitation has been replaced by insistence, and thus they make their way to the hall. While the usual chamber used by the Queen is smaller, it is too small for additional guests, and thus the larger space has been called into use. Admittedly, the trestle is still rather too small, but it is simply laid and retains an intimate air that belies the grandeur of its surroundings.

Elizabeth and Philip are already present, while the two princes are occupied by their puppies, and rise hastily as William escorts Anne into the hall.

"Mama! William! Welcome - at last!" Elizabeth laughs, hastening forward to accept the kisses to her ring, "Come, let us set aside the tiresome requirements of protocol and revert to the pretence that we are naught but a gentry family gathering to sup."

"Forgive me, my dear Majesty." Anne says, smiling, "We thought it best to permit your family to enjoy some peace away from fawning courtiers."

"Fawning, Mama?" Elizabeth frowns humorously, "I consider the term 'fawning' impossible to apply to you."

William smiles and squeezes Anne's hand as she laughs, "Indeed so, my Elizabeth, I could no more fawn over another than I could remove my own head!"

The princes hasten over and Anne crouches to hug them, "My little Highnesses, I am right glad that you are here!"

"They are shortly to retire to bed, Mama, but we thought it would be unfair upon them, and upon you, to deprive you of the opportunity see them before they did so."

"And I am grateful for it. Might I take them out into the parkland to ride upon the morrow? The weather seems set fair, and there is a most delightful area of woodland that I have no doubt they shall be keen to explore."

Immediately, the boys turn, "Mama! May we?" Edward's voice is hopeful.

"If you retire without complaint, and give Mistress Peake no arguments, then yes."

The boys laugh delightedly, "Thank you, Mama!" Even Henry's thanks are unprompted for once.

"Now, off to bed with you, my children - sleep well and ask the Holy Father to grant you fine weather for your ride."

They accept kisses from their mother, and ruffles to the head from their father, before bowing formally to Anne and William, and departing with their dogs in tow.

"They are delightful boys, Majesty." William observes, "England is fortunate to have them."

She smiles, and kisses him upon the cheek, "As I am fortunate to have you, for you make my Mama happy."

"She does likewise to me, Majesty."

Philip turns and takes Anne's arm to escort her to the table, "Come, my Lady, I am pleased to serve you a fine venison that was brought down at Ightham Mote, which was sent through to us just this morning as a gift by Sir Richard Clement."

"Ah, yes," Anne smiles, "I am given to understand that the venison from his estate is of excellent quality."

"Having sampled it, Mama," Elizabeth says, her arm taken by William, "I can vouch for that claim. It is almost as fine as yours."

Their conversation as the remove is served remains light and trivial, for discussions of the times that they have spent apart have already taken place. It is hard not to speak of more substantial matters, but Elizabeth is determined to keep such talk confined to the council chamber, and as Anne and William have been invited back to that table, they can confine such matters to there.

As she samples the venison, Anne watches a discussion between William and Philip over a new design for a barge that he is planning to have constructed to convey the family between their palaces along the Thames. They would not normally consider such expenditure, as Elizabeth has long learned to be frugal where possible; but all of the old barges that ply the river have become aged and battered, while one sprang a fearsome leak a few weeks ago while conveying a number of the Queen's senior ladies across the river. They returned to the Privy Stair at Whitehall only through a truly herculean effort of three oarsmen bailing frantically as the rest rowed for home. The ladies' gowns were befouled to the knees, but at least they had not been thrown into the river itself.

Lifting another morsel upon the point of her knife, she catches sight of Elizabeth, who is also watching the conversation. Her eyes are soft, as are her features, as she watches her husband talk animatedly of innovations and practical fittings to ensure that the vessel is faster and more stable than any of the barges currently in service. Yes - she loves him; loves him deeply and truly.

_We made the right choice, my old friend Tom_. She thinks to herself, smiling a little sadly, _I wish that you could see how right we were_.

Perhaps he can - perhaps he is watching them now, supping at the Lord's table as they sup at this one. Her smile becomes impish, that would be nice. He would be delighted if that were so.

Once supper is eaten, they rise and retire to a small withdrawing chamber, where they play a few hands of Triumphs. For a moment, Anne feels transported back in time, to evenings when she faced her dear Jane Rochford, while Richard and Mr Cromwell faced each other. They played for pennies, of course, and delighted in Jane's ability to trounce them all.

Such happy times. And now she can relive them with her daughter and son-in-law.

Best of all, they shall still be here until the leaves begin to turn, and she can enjoy them for the rest of the summer.

Her smile warms at the thought, and she gathers the cards to deal another hand.


	8. Continental Rumblings

**A/N:** Hello again! A bit of escapism from the boundaries of lockdown. Keep well. 3

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT

_Continental Rumblings_

In setting aside a room for the Council, it had not occurred to Anne that she would find herself required to be seated in it. That she, as much as her husband, has been invited to join the Councillors is something of a surprise to her. While she certainly sat at the head of the table during her regency, the idea of bringing noblewomen into the Council chamber had never entered her head. It was her status as an anointed Queen that had permitted her entry, and she had not seen herself as a mere woman under those circumstances.

Even now, no woman has been permitted to sit amongst the men of the royal Council. Women lack the intelligence and political acumen to formulate good advice, and certainly no man would accept advice from a lesser being. That is how it has always been - only a woman upon whom God has granted His Touch to make them that otherworldly being that is an anointed Monarch might hope to gain entry, and even then only if invited by her royal master. She would not be permitted to speak…

Now, however, the senior Lords of the Council, who remember those days when she ruled in her daughter's stead, are all unconcerned at her presence. To them, it is merely a resumption of those past days when she led their deliberations. The younger, of course, are a little more bemused at the sight of her - but they, too, are used to the presence of the Queen. She suspects, however, that they may become less impressed should she attempt to express her views.

Beside her, William's leg presses against her own, as it would not do to hold her hand in so public a forum - they are, of course, a temporary part of the Queen's council - but she smiles inwardly at his unspoken support. It is unlikely that she shall require it, but he offers it nonetheless.

The assembly rise as the Queen enters, Philip at her side. He, too, would not regularly join her in the Council chamber; but their reduced numbers, and the ongoing religious strife on the continent, require all who are available to consider the impact that such issues might have upon the stability of religion in England.

"Thank you all," Elizabeth says, "I am most grateful for the attendance of their Graces of Pembroke and Kent, for the matter of religion amongst our neighbours continues to rumble most ominously, and a bid to overturn the reforms of the Church in the northern realms is growing in popularity amongst those who see no need for it."

She turns and smiles at her mother, who curtseys in response.

Elizabeth acknowledges Northumberland, who rises, paper in hand, "I wish that I had better news, Majesty; but it is becoming clear that the young men who are attending the English Seminary in Douai are being urged to return to England and overturn heresy in all its forms."

Seated beside the Duke, Richmond shakes his head despondently. After all that they had done to try to win some degree of stability in matters of religion, to see that state threatened by those who have not lived in England for some considerable time clearly saddens him.

"We have no means to prevent their return to England, should they wish to do so." Northumberland continues, "Though I think it likely that they shall not commence their activities in London - for London is too heavily for reform for them to make any headway. No, they shall go to the North, where they think that their message shall fall upon more fertile ground."

"In which case, I may undertake a progress to York to meet with the Council of the North." Philip says, "It would be most discomfiting for them to attend mass only to find the Prince Consort amongst the celebrants."

Elizabeth smiles at him, "Ah, my Lord, I wish it could be so easy as that. I fear they would only be discomfited should they find me in such circumstances. You are known to be of the old faith. Their argument with you is the land in which you were born, not the faith that you practice."

She turns and, almost instinctively, looks towards her mother. It is as though the years have fallen away, and suddenly Anne almost looks across to the right of the Queen to assess Mr Cromwell's expression and ask him…

She pauses, swallows down a sudden lump in her throat and turns to her daughter, "Majesty, in circumstances of religious argument, our favoured approach was to turn to the priesthood and seek them to preach of the brotherhood of all men under God. It would be best, I think, to do the same - ensuring that homilies emphasise that we all place our trust in the Father, and thus there is no enmity between us."

Somewhere down the table, there is a somewhat scornful grunting sound; someone is clearly unimpressed with such advice.

Elizabeth's eyes come up sharply, and she searches the faces of her councillors for the source of the noise. From her expression, it is clear that whoever was responsible shall be in for quite the tongue-lashing; it is no surprise that all at the table now bear countenances as sober as any judge.

Anne's eyes, however, are on the face of Richmond, whose eyes are narrowed. It is clear that he knows who was responsible, but decorum forbids him from being a blab. At this table, it is the role of the guilty party to admit to their error.

The silence becomes ever more awkward as the one who grunted refuses to admit to it. Her expression disgusted, Elizabeth dismisses the incident and turns back to Northumberland, "I shall write to Mr Parker today and ensure that he instructs the parishes to emphasise the freedom of all to seek God through the auspices of the old faith and the new. England has been an example of religious brotherhood for the length of my reign. As with all brothers, there are quarrels, even fights, but nonetheless there is friendship amongst all. I have no wish to see that overturned by foolish young men who have forgotten what it is to be a brother."

"I would suggest, Majesty," Richmond adds, his seniority permitting him to speak without first being recognised, "that a watch be kept upon the ports and harbours of the south coast to see who is coming ashore. While I would strongly advise against arresting those who can be seen to have come from Douai: to know that they are coming is helpful, for we can then take steps to counsel parishes against their message."

"You would not have them conveyed to the tower?" Everyone looks up, startled at the voice that comes from the end of the table. Junior councillors are not expected to speak so out of turn.

"Indeed I would not, Mr Dudley." Richmond answers, coldly, "I am well aware of the bind in which they place us; for to arrest them would set them upon a road to martyrdom in their eyes - and the eyes of those who send them - but to leave them free grants them a sense that they can speak as they will without restraint. If we are to continue to show an example of how a realm that is mature in its religious nature behaves, then it is the only choice."

Frowning slightly, Anne looks down the table to see the young man at the end. His face is somewhat flushed, from anger perhaps, and his eyes are most unpleasant. It could not be clearer that the Lord Chancellor is offering the sternest rebuke that can be offered at the table other than that of the Queen, and Dudley is not pleased.

"Sir Robert." Elizabeth interrupts, "You are new to this table and thus perhaps are not best prepared for the proprieties of attendance. His Grace of Richmond is the Lord High Chancellor, and has advised me from the first days of my reign. I value his counsel greatly, and thus he is permitted to speak without prior recognition. You, however, are not."

To Anne's eyes, it appears as though Dudley seems to shrink a little; instantly chastened by the words of the Queen. No, more than that; he is - could it be possible - reddening even further, with a degree of embarrassment that seems entirely greater than one would expect even if being publicly reprimanded. No…it is as though…

She pulls up the thought at once. No - surely not. Then she remembers the look on Richmond's face. Does he think as she does?

_As soon as the meeting is done, I shall ask him._

* * *

The meeting concluded, the council rise and bow as Elizabeth departs. While Dudley has clearly recovered a degree of equilibrium, and the matter was not mentioned again after the Queen rebuked him, he departs with a degree of embarrassed haste.

She has said nothing to William, but their closeness is such that he can almost read her intentions, and he smiles and squeezes her hand before departing, leaving her to assist Richmond as he rises from his seat, "Come, Richard. Shall we sit in the south parlour awhile? The wind is strong today, though the sun is bright."

"More reminiscences my Lady Anne?" He smiles at her.

"In a way."

She helps him as he sinks into a comfortable chair, sets his sticks to the side and draws up a chair of her own, "Forgive me - I suspect you would not wish to speak of this; but I could see your expressions, and you have never been able to guard your thoughts from those who know you."

He knows what she means, and reddens a little, "I should remember that."

"What do you know of Mr Dudley and my daughter?" her voice is low.

Richmond sighs, "Little, I fear. It is naught but supposition."

"In the case of a woman upon the throne, supposition is as good as known fact. You know that." Her tone is gentle, but there is steel behind those words.

"I think it to be naught but a childish infatuation. Even in a man as grown as he - for he is married, as is her Majesty. It is hardly unknown that he is dissatisfied with his wife, for no reason other than his foolish insistence upon marrying her in haste, but…" his voice trails off.

"But?" Anne prompts. She can guess, but she is not the one with suspicions.

"I saw it first when Dudley came to the Council for the first time." He admits, "When he was in her presence in so small a company, his eyes did not leave her face. Not for a moment. I think she did not see it, for why should she? But from that moment, I kept a close eye upon his behaviour."

"And?" Her stomach sinks a little, there must be more. Richmond would not be so concerned were there not.

"Since that time, he remains fixed upon her when he is in her presence, and his position as Master of the Horse has led him to act in a manner that is inappropriate. When we were at Ightham, he aided her Majesty from her horse - which he was permitted to do - but did not withdraw from her until one of his brothers called him away." Richmond pauses, then plunges on, "And worse - when she played the virginals in the long gallery not two weeks ago, I saw him look upon her with such ardour that I feared he might embarrass himself and all around him. Instead, he excused himself and left."

Anne's eyes widen in horror. She has no fear that Elizabeth might reciprocate such ardour, her love for Philip is clear and widely known after all, but the suggestion alone could be greatly damaging, "Does any other know of this?"

"Not to my knowledge, my Lady Anne; I was the only one who noticed his behaviour at that first council meeting, and resolved to watch him afterwards. Unless any other was doing likewise, the other incidents would have been missed. I only noticed his reaction to her Majesty in the Long Gallery because I watched him: he was well to the rear of the gathering and thus none saw him."

"And you have not spoken to him of it." It is not a question.

"I cannot find a means to do so that would not inspire furious denial. I have naught but my own observations to offer as evidence, and that is of little use, I think. The only thing that the gossips talk of is his increasing disdain for Lady Dudley, as she has become one of the Queen's ladies."

"And he is jealous of her?"

Richmond nods, "I fear so. Quite why, I cannot say - for her ascendancy could never match his. No matter how favoured she might become, she shall never be one of the Queen's Council."

"But she has what he lacks. Close access to the Queen."

Richmond shakes his head, "I do not believe for a moment that he would harm her Majesty. In spite of his sudden stroke of ardour in the Long Gallery, I think it is more that he worships her from afar as we all did when we were captivated by a fine beauty in our youth. Should he get past it, his value as a councillor shall increase and he shall be an asset to the Council. He possesses an impulsiveness and ambition that is greater than that of his brothers."

"Hence his reaction to my suggestion to her Majesty."

He nods again, then frowns, "Though I did not, until this moment, think that he might be a coward. He has never given me cause to think so before."

Anne shakes her head, "Nay, if he is enamoured of the Queen, then it is dread of her censure that would have stilled his tongue, not rank cowardice. I do not think it likely that he shall be such a fool again."

"I shall continue to watch him, Anne." Richmond promises, "I know, as you do, that the chastity of the Queen in the eyes of her subjects is fragile in the face of unwarranted rumour."

"For we are of the devil, and all tainted by sin." Anne adds venomously. Even now, after all these years, her reputation still hovers over her child like a shade.

He smiles at her, "Even though she is a woman grown, still we protect her as we did when she was a child."

Anne takes his hand and squeezes it gently, "Indeed we do."

* * *

The weather remains fair, and all of the visiting Court are engaged in sunlit activities. Those who can hunt are far out in the parkland in search of game, while those who cannot are once more at the bowling green beside the lake, or firing arrows at the butts that have been set at the furthest end of that wide open space.

Astride her fastest horse, Anne laughs joyfully at the freedom of the chase. While she has previously forgone the opportunity to hunt in order to entertain those of her council who are no longer able to join her; today she is racing along in pursuit of the pack, a young stag bounding off ahead of the hounds.

They shall not capture this one - it is too fast at so young an age - not unless it becomes trapped or is injured; but the pleasure is in the ride, not the kill, and to share that excitement with her daughter is a rare treat.

Her discussion with Richmond a few days ago has given her cause to watch the Master of the Horse far more closely than she did when the Court first arrived, and she is not surprised to see Dudley not that far behind. Enamoured or not, however, he is at least sufficiently sensible to keep his gelding a few paces behind the Queen, as she races ahead with her husband matching her stride for stride.

Now that she is more aware of the matter, Anne has heard rumours that Dudley struck his wife a few days ago after the Queen denied his demand that Lady Dudley attend him. Such is his right as her master of course; but even in the midst of his worst rages, Henry never did such a thing to her - and William has never done so either. For a moment she sighs inwardly: she has been fortunate in her husbands in a way that Lady Dudley seems not to be.

It is his impulsiveness, perhaps; he acts without thinking, and only afterwards realises that he has acted wrongly. Did she not see that in the council chamber?

Her attention is captured by the approach of a high hedge, and she abandons thoughts of foolish Courtiers to concentrate instead upon the jump ahead. It is no surprise to her that Elizabeth urges her horse onward, and that the beast trusts her enough to attempt it. Behind, others are already reining in, though most seem likely to try it. For the riders, that is the point of the hunt: to test one's skill at the ride.

The Queen and her Consort between them have more than sufficient skill in the saddle to clear the jump, and even as her own horse bunches to make the leap, they are safely over. For a moment, Anne is in the air - as though she was flying - and laughs delightedly as she returns to earth. What better joy is there than to ride so free?

As she suspected, the stag is too fast for the hounds and bounds safely away as the hounds become bogged down in a thicket. It is of no moment - they do not need the meat from this hunt - and the riders bring their horses to a halt. Behind them, those who did not risk the jump have found another way round and are catching up. She wonders if they are as hungry as she is: riding always gives her an appetite.

One of the gamekeepers approaches, "My Lady, the awning for your dinner is a half mile to the west." He points off to his right, "The cook is eager for your arrival, I think."

She smiles at his slightly bruised expression; for all his talent, her cook is a temperamental man, and apt to show that temper without warning. Even she has borne the brunt of it on occasion - though he is quick to pull his head in should he do so. One does not insult one's employer after all.

The riders make their way across the parkland to an arrangement of canvas pavilions where tables and chairs are set. As promised, the fare is magnificent, and all set to with knives and fingers almost as soon as they have washed their hands and set the drying cloths aside.

Halfway through a slice of tender hogget, Anne looks up to see a grubby man astride a sweat slathered horse. Surprising though this arrival might be, his companion is more surprising, as Richmond has clambered aboard a horse to ride with him. At once, her heart sinks.

Elizabeth frowns from her seat, but waits for the messenger to dismount, while one of the beaters helps Richmond down. The pair bow, "Forgive me, Majesty," Richmond says, "I know not what the messenger has brought - but I was ever an over-curious man, and I am keen to know what he has in his satchel."

The Queen smiles at him, "I would ask that you continue to be so, my Lord Richmond; I should far rather have your advice than manage without it."

She takes the message and breaks the seal. Watching from her seat, Anne does what she can to read her daughter's face as she reads the missive. A slightly worried frown, which eases, but then returns…no, she cannot guess what lies upon that page.

"My Lords, I would ask that you grant my Council and I some privacy." She asks, "Forgive us for the intrusion of policy into our pleasure."

Anne smiles to herself: it is quite likely that Henry would have struck the messenger and sent him back to wherever they were staying, and wait for the party to return. Not Elizabeth, it seems.

Those who are already present bring their chairs across, while Philip fetches a chair for Richmond. Consort he may be, but he is solicitous to his Lord Chancellor's needs nonetheless.

"It is not an invasion, my Lords." Elizabeth says, immediately, "Instead it seems that the desire for counter-reformation in England continues apace. A number of young men have put ashore from ships at lesser ports upon the south coast, and have been seen distributing pamphlets and preaching against the new faith. There have been some ugly scenes in a few places - but mostly the parts of the realm they have visited remain at peace."

Sitting beside Richmond, Dudley moves as though to speak, but then subsides. He is not one to make the same mistake twice.

"I lack the ability of our late Lord of Essex to set watchers upon those who are a risk to the realm, Majesty," Richmond advises, a little sheepishly, "but I am sure that there are aldermen in the parishes of the south of England who would willingly keep a watch upon your behalf and send warning if these youths become troublesome."

Elizabeth nods, "Thank you, my Lord." She looks across to Northumberland, "I think it wise to alert the Council of the North. The old ways are stronger there, and I cannot believe that those who are being induced to inspire mischief in my realm have sought only to come ashore upon the south coast."

"I shall see to it, Majesty. I think it likely that they shall not waste resources seeking to convert those who already share their faith; but there is no accounting for religious fervour."

He looks across at Richmond, who nods in agreement. Beside him, Dudley is almost trembling with the desire to speak, and Elizabeth acknowledges him.

"Is it not wise to round them up and get them off the streets? A spell in a lock up might persuade them that their rabble-rousing is not wanted."

Richmond shakes his head, "Nay, Sir Robert. That is likely to be very much what they desire. I freely confess that I am no religious ascetic, and look not to win martyrdom: but I have seen many who do, and they would willingly set themselves upon a pyre if it were to be an example for those who they believe to labour in the midst of persecution. That none do so is of little import to them, I fear."

"So we would just permit them to continue unhindered?" Dudley demands.

"At this time, yes." Richmond answers, easily, "We watch them, and keep note of the reaction they receive from those who hear them. In the meantime, we continue to prevail upon the Bishops to guide their parishes to preach upon the virtue of brotherhood in Christ, and remind all that the manner in which one offers supplication to the Almighty is of less importance to this Realm than the fact that they are doing so - for that is a matter between the individual soul and the Father."

Anne smiles at him. He is right about his lack of religious fervour, after all. While she always sought to retain aspects of the old faith that appealed to her sensibilities, Elizabeth has always advocated for her subjects to be free to approach God upon the terms of their faith, whatever that faith might be. Even those ridiculous puritans.

She looks up to realise that Elizabeth is looking at her, and guesses - rightly - that her daughter seeks her views, "I agree that these young men are, at this time, little more than an irritant. My concern is more towards the thoughts of those upon the Continent and the intentions of France, Spain and the Empire. As long as they continue to adhere to the principles of political expediency, we have little to fear from a rabble of men afire with foolish notions of sainthood. They have not lived in England for some years and have lost that inherent distrust of foreigners that seems almost to run in the blood of Englishmen. It is unlikely that they shall make much impact upon the realm at this time. Only if our neighbours across the Channel seek to support them shall it be necessary to revise that view."

She looks up to see that Richmond is smiling at her, "What?"

"It is as though his Grace of Essex has come back to us and speaks through you." Richmond says, a little wistfully, "He would have said no less than that."

Elizabeth sets the note down, "In which case, my Lords, I think we shall continue with our plans for today. My Lord Richmond, I should be obliged if you could accompany the messenger back to the main House and place him in the care of a steward with a requirement for him to be given ale and bread."

"I shall send Colin back with them," Anne says, then beckons one of the beaters over, and addresses the youth, "Take the messenger's horse to the stables to be given a rub-down and water. Ask Mr Cobham to give him one of ours at his discretion to return to a suitable inn at Maidstone once he is ready to depart."

Returning to her mount, Elizabeth sighs, "It is tiresome, is it not, Mama, that such matters impose upon us even in our times of leisure?"

"Such is the burden of royalty, my darling Majesty."

* * *

Robert Rich of Leighs gazes sourly out of the window of his quarters at a small flotilla of mallard swimming lazily across the lake. The view is magnificent, of course - nothing but the best for the heir of the Lord Chancellor - but nonetheless his resentment simmers as though that privilege is, in itself, an insult. To make matters worse, he has strained a muscle in his groin, making riding painful; and thus is denied the opportunity to win approval of his horsemanship while at the hunt.

As if _that _were not bad enough, his wife is expected in the next few days, so he shall have to rein in his pursuit of Miss Millsome. Her delightfully pert little arse shall have to remain concealed beneath layers of petticoat and brocade, and his efforts to slip her away from the scrutiny of her elderly chaperone despite her indifference - feigned, he has no doubt - shall come to naught.

With little of importance to do, he has found himself somewhat overshadowed by others of his rank - and lower - and chafes against that, too. Not that he is fool enough to show it openly, of course; few would sympathise with his discontent. He has made that mistake before, and been scorned over it: once was quite enough.

Ah well - the advantage of having Elizabeth present shall spare him the trouble of fawning over his father to keep his inheritance. She won his regard from the moment their nuptials were arranged, and has always kept it. Then he smirks to himself, at least there is no danger of her being incorporated into the Royal household - not with two children. Once a wife becomes a mother, there is no place for her at Court.

He is roused from his musings by a knock upon the door, and he waits for his manservant to open it, "My Lord, Sir Robert Dudley is without."

Finally, Leighs smiles; at least there is one in this benighted place who shall grant him a sympathetic ear. Nodding curtly, he heads for the door, "I shall return after dinner. Summon the chambermaids to see to the apartment."

"Yes, my Lord."

Dudley is equally put out, his expression dark. All know that the Queen rebuked him in council a few days back; and he carries his embarrassment like a bruise from a scorned lover. His wife has been in her Majesty's company for the last two days, seeing to the tuition of the princes, and thus the Master of Horse has spent a great deal of time reviewing thoroughbreds brought to the estate from nearby stables. It could not be clearer that he is aiming to smooth over his gaffe at the council table by securing a new mount for his Queen.

"Have you found a suitable beast in your searching?" Leighs asks, casually. In spite of his reason for doing so, Dudley is a fine judge of horseflesh - and always finds pleasure in such hunts.

The cold expression thaws slightly into a brittle smile, "I have indeed, Robert. A mettlesome bay gelding with pitch black mane and tail that her Majesty shall delight in tempering. He is too hot for her at this time, but I shall see to that."

"Do not let her hear you say so, my friend. She shall be most offended to be told that she is lacking in the management of a horse."

"That is true - she has never fallen from the saddle, but there is always a first time, and I should not wish for it to be from a horse that I have secured for her."

They emerge out onto the green in front of the great house, and continue their stroll towards the gatehouse, talking of light matters. To speak of greater matters would be foolish in such surroundings, as others are within earshot. Once, however, they are outside in the parkland, they can be more honest.

"What is it, Robin?" Leighs asks, as that sour expression returns.

"England is in danger, my friend; grave danger - and yet the Council does nothing. Nothing! Even now traitors are landing at our ports, but her Majesty is hidebound by cowards who advise naught but complacency, and shall do nothing to protect the realm."

"Danger?" Leighs turns, surprised. Lacking even the first interest in politics, he is unaware of efforts to counter the reformation in Europe - or the consequences that might afflict England.

"Catholic conspirators, my Lord, Englishmen who have fled to the Continent to learn treachery - they come back to spread their poison, and to overturn all that England has achieved in freeing herself from the toils of Rome. Men who would consign all they can find to the fire, and subjugate the rest to a foreign potentate. It is not to be countenanced!"

"I think that they are fools to believe that any in England would allow such a thing." Leighs observes, "Unless they come with an army at their backs."

"I have no doubt that that would follow." Dudley spits, viciously, "That creature who rules France in her son's name would see all of us under her heel and prostrated before Rome if she could."

Leighs squirms inwardly; his father brought him up in the old faith, and he has never really thought much about the reformed church in any fashion other than academic. Like many young men of his station, he attends mass each day, but conversation with the Almighty remains firmly within the bounds of that mass. In time, he shall use his inheritance to endow a few almshouses, a petty school or two, or even rebuild a church as his father is doing, and all shall be mended after what went before. Actual faith seems not to come into the equation all that much.

"I would not countenance such a thing." He admits, however, "We are Englishmen, and none shall come against us - for we shall send them back into the sea."

"Aye indeed, my friend. That we shall. They came once and were scattered - when they come again, we shall do so again; but those who have come first are fevered Papists afire with a desire to see God - and I am convinced that we should grant them that wish."

For a moment, Leighs is tempted to advise Dudley that he, too, is Catholic; but decides not to.

"They are traitors." Dudley goes on, coldly, "And those upon the Council who would indulge them are no better."

"They are in their dotage, Sir Robert; time shall resolve that problem." Leighs jokes.

"Not quickly enough." Dudley snaps, then pauses: remembering whose company he is keeping, "England needs experienced hands, my Lord; perhaps, in time, those hands shall come to see the truth and align with the need to protect the realm from such treachery."

* * *

Anne's fingers pluck gently at the strings of her lute, a trickling accompaniment to her song,

"_In illo tempore: accesserunt ad Jesum Pharisei_

_tenentes eum, et dicentes: Si licet homini_

_dimittere uxorem suam quacumque ex causa?_

_Qui respondens, ait eis: Non ligistis quia qui_

_fecit hominem ab initio masculum et feminam_

_fecit eos? Et dixit, fecit eos, et dixit:_

_Propter hoc dimittet homo patrem et matrem et_

_adherebit uxori sue et erunt duo in carne una._

_Itaque iam non sunt duo sed una caro. Quod_

_ergo Deus coniunxit, homo non separet."_

She has accumulated many more songs in her old songbook since she first left France, of course; but her favourites have always remained the same. How ironic that she should still sing this _chanson_, taken from that chapter of the gospel of Matthew used in the wedding mass. She had sung it once when first married to Henry, in those first, heady days when all was new and filled with love. Those days when she thought herself Queen of the world and that her sons and their progeny would rule England until Christ returned.

The _chanson_ lost its resonance to her once she had failed in that duty - or, at least, failed in Henry's eyes - and his growing loathing of her had given her cause to turn that page hastily whenever looking for a song to sing in her privy chamber. It was only after she came here, at her William's side, that she found it in herself to return to it.

Across the chamber, Philip is resting in a high-backed chair and smiling with pleasure at the sound of the song, while Elizabeth divides her time between an embroidery hoop and looking across at him with a loving expression that reflects the sentiments of the words. It is just the four of them this evening: William is also seated nearby, watching his wife with pleasure. To all intents and purposes, they are a happy family enjoying an evening after a good supper.

Anne finishes the _chanson_ and smiles, a little embarrassed, as they applaud, "I am not the singer I once was, I fear."

"You sing most well, Madame." Philip answers, "I cannot sing, so I find any who can to be a joy."

She sets aside the lute and crosses to Elizabeth, "I am at a loss as to why you stitch, my dear one; embroidery has never been a pastime that you have favoured."

Elizabeth smiles, "If I were to be translating, Mama, then I should not have been able to devote attention to your song. I should rather do that, even if it requires me to wield a needle."

Anne knows her daughter well, even after years apart, "What is it, my daughter? I see there is a shadow in your eyes."

She sighs, and sets the hoop aside, "I am concerned, Mama; even as I seek leisure, the world will not permit me to rest. Of all things that might hurl my Realm into confusion, it remains the matter of religion. It seems madness to me that there are those who would throw all to hell in order to impose their will upon others in the matter of faith. I cannot command a man's soul - that is the property of God, not me."

"It has ever been thus, my darling." Anne says, fetching a small footstool over and perching upon it alongside her daughter, "I, too, found that to be so. In all that I did when I was Regent, I sought only to find peace between Englishmen; for my greatest fear was to create a disaster that you would be obliged to remedy. Men, however, seem less keen to seek such a balance."

"That strife is even here, Mama; between the men of my council. Those who seek to maintain our two faiths equally seem to be only those who are the old-guard. Those who have come in their footsteps are less willing to accommodate such an agreement."

"Young Dudley." William observes. It is not a question.

"I think it is his impulsiveness that drives him, your Grace." Elizabeth admits, "But should he be more determined, he might well look to build a faction at Court when we are returned. To balance them against one another is a hard challenge that I have often enjoyed; but with those who come from Douai afire with passion to overturn the new faith also emerging in our realm, I begin to wonder if all that work shall be ruined."

"He is one voice amongst a chorus to the contrary at this time, Elizabeth," Anne muses, "If we are to counter him, then it is here that we shall be most likely to succeed. I suspect that much of his fire is fuelled by a desire to make his mark at the council table - for he is young and eager. That his eagerness is misdirected is unfortunate, but its course can be diverted if there are none to whom he can turn to create factions."

"In which case, I shall suspend the council for a few days and permit my councillors a period of leisure without the concerns of the Kingdom upon their shoulders. Once this sabbath is past, we can return to work - but for now, we shall set it aside."

Anne smiles at her, "That sounds wise, my Queen." Perhaps, if those who look for mischief are denied the forum in which to do so, they might set their foolishness aside.

As she rises to return to her seat, however, her smile falters briefly. Is it likely that they shall do so?

She is not at all sure.


	9. Reverberations at Home

**A/N: **Happy Easter, all! Thank you for your comments and favourites - as always, I'm really pleased that you're enjoying the story. I'm being a bit mean to Robert Dudley at the moment, as he has the capacity to be an excellent adviser to Elizabeth once he gets over his foolish infatuation. He just needs to get there...

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

_Reverberations at Home_

The air is uncomfortably warm this morning as Anne emerges into her Privy Chamber to speak to her Steward about the day's work. In spite of her numerous guests, the house must still be run.

"I fear Mr Trench is in a most fearsome temper this morning." Seton begins, "One of the scullery boys did not provide a scrubbed platter as quickly as he demanded. It is now a dented, bent platter: while the boy fled and now cannot be found. I think it likely that he has departed the estate in search of his home."

"Oh dear." Anne sighs, "He is an excellent cook, to be sure; but how many youngsters have departed in fear of his temper? I sometimes wonder if his talent is worth his rages."

"I shall seek out a new scullery boy, your Grace."

"Another one." Anne smiles at him, her fan already out and busy, "Ensure that the ale for the Spit Jacks is as well chilled as you can achieve; if it is warm now, then later it shall be as though they are sitting _in_ the fires, rather than beside them."

The organisation of the day complete, she makes her way through to William's private chamber, where he is standing beside an open window, attempting to catch whatever breeze he can, "I think we shall be outside for much of the day today. I shall dispatch the gamekeepers to erect awnings where the trees are insufficient to provide shade; otherwise none of the ladies shall be able to emerge."

"Indeed." Anne agrees, her hand seeking out his, "None of them shall wish to catch the sun. That is most unbecoming. For myself, I shall resort to my lace coif and a wide brimmed hat."

William's hand grips hers a little more tightly, "Then it shall be safe to escort you without, perhaps?" It has been a few weeks since they were able to escape the house to walk together in the park. Someone always seems to accost them on the way.

"I should like that, my love."

* * *

While some have opted to ride in the park, most are seeking what cool air they can alongside the lake. With so few trees nearby, the wide expanse of grass is littered with wide awnings to keep the hot sun at bay, and few have emerged from them onto a bowling green that is starting to look a distinct shade of yellow.

Fanning herself in the shade of the largest of the awnings, Elizabeth watches as Lady Dudley picks her way through an almain on her new lute. One of the few skills that she was taught by her mother: she is a capable, if careful, player; and the cascading notes are a pleasure to hear. From her start as Mistress of the Princes' household, she has become a welcome member of her Majesty's retinue, and Elizabeth has found herself seeking out the shy young woman's company rather more frequently since they arrived in Kent. Anna is embroidering nearby, while her other ladies gossip quietly as they watch a few of the men of the Court risk a game of bowls in the hot sun.

The few days that she set aside, dismissing the council to give them some leisure, seemed to grant a brief respite to that undercurrent of tension that the religious situation has generated. Now, however, it has returned again, and Sir Robert in particular is becoming more strident over the matter of the men from Douai. To be fair to him, those unwanted missionaries have been causing much discord wherever they go, as even those whom they think to be sympathetic to their words have proved to be otherwise. There was even something of a riot in Winchester when one young man chose to berate the crowds at the Market fair.

They are blind to the reality of the situation, of course; to their mind, they are rescuing their oppressed Catholic brethren from a realm of heresy. That her Catholic subjects are free to worship as they will without restraint or censure has not entered their heads. Had they been persecuted, of course, things would be different: but they are not. Lord Richmond's observers have reported that even those who are most fervently for the Pope are appalled at these young men, fearing that their message might bring enmity upon their heads from their reformist neighbours. Rather than be discouraged by such stony ground, however, the young men seem instead to be all the more determined. No wonder they are being more overt.

She emerges from her brooding to look across to one of the other awnings, where her Lord Chancellor is dozing in a comfortable chair. Always the remedy for hot weather when one is older, it seems, she smiles fondly to herself.

The sounds of hoofbeats captures her attention, and she turns to look out at the drive, fearful that messengers are bringing bad news. Instead, one of those new-fangled carriages rattles in the wake of four horses led by a postilion. The main cabin rattling and bumping on thick chains that do at least a little to smooth the ride, the enormous vehicle rumbles past. Someone is visiting, then. Relieved that it is not a matter of concern for her, Elizabeth turns her attention back to her ladies.

Nearby, however, the noise has roused Richmond from his slumbers, and he also turns. In his case, however, his reaction is one of pleasure as he recognises his arms on the door. Such a foolish purchase, of course; but his ability to ride far is compromised by his age; so, inspired by his borrowed vehicle, he opted to import the thing from France. He has not used it yet, so instead it carries his daughter in law and grandchildren. Unlike Robert, Lizzie is a kindly soul whom he loves almost as much as his own daughters, and he is delighted to see her arrival. Robert, on the other hand, shall likely be unimpressed. It has not gone unnoticed by Richmond that his son has been attempting to seduce a niece of one of the Queen's younger ladies. Not that he has any right to complain, of course. Prior to the King's death, and his elevation to the Regency council, he was no better.

Fully awake, he sits back to watch the ongoing game of bowls. It is unlikely that Robert's greeting of his wife shall be particularly enthusiastic, but that is as it is. He shall greet his grandchildren later.

* * *

Anne is grateful for the thick stone walls of the hall, as they serve well to keep the worst of the heat outside. As the morning has worn on, the warmth has grown ever worse, and even the awnings beside the lake are losing their appeal.

Elizabeth Rich of Leighs arrived an hour ago and is now installed with her husband in larger apartments to accommodate both herself and her son and daughter. Most have not been accompanied by their offspring, but she knows how fond Richmond is of his grandchildren and thus they are welcome for his sake as much as that of the princes, who now have other youngsters with whom they can play.

The ladies in the hall are fanning themselves as best as they can, while the men linger beside open windows, the lingering aromas of the midday meal slowly dispersing in what little breeze enters.

Elizabeth and her family are in their chambers in the Gloriette, where its extended outlook permits a little more breeze to reach them. Even the boys seem subdued by the heat; their usual exuberance muted as they squirm in their confining garments. Anne smiles to herself, no doubt the pair wish that they were like the little peasant boys that they would have observed upon the road, clad in shirts and free to leap into streams to mitigate the discomfort. They are, however, princes; and thus must submit to the obligation to observe decorum at all times. Summer is not always the most enjoyable time of year.

Her own fan flaps back and forth, wafting a light draught across her face, powdered yet again with more crushed eggshell to absorb the perspiration that she is not permitted to show. All of the women are forced to do likewise, and she expects that they shall all resemble stuccoed walls by this evening, at which point they shall wash the entire edifice away and start all over again.

She looks up from her seat as William approaches, his expression an odd mixture of concern and attempts to conceal it, "What is it, my Lord?"

"I have sent stewards to recall the councillors to the Privy Chamber, my dearest; a messenger has arrived with word for her Majesty that is likely to alarm her."

Anne's stomach sinks, "I shall attend upon her Majesty and advise her."

He nods, and crosses to where Richmond is sitting at a card table with Hackney. Even as she departs, the two are helping the Lord Chancellor to rise to his feet.

In spite of her concern, she is relieved to find that the chambers in the Gloriette are entirely fresher than those of the main house; the air cooled by its journey across the lake. There is no wait to be summoned, and Elizabeth smiles with pleasure at the sight of her, "Mama! I am most pleased to see you…" her voice trails off as she sees Anne's expression, "What has happened?"

"At this time, I know not, my dear Majesty." Anne answers, "A messenger has arrived by fast horse, bearing papers to be considered by yourself and your council. William is already assembling them in the Council Chamber."

"Anna," Elizabeth turns to Lady Conti, "Please see to the Princes."

"Yes Majesty." Anna curtseys and takes a seat alongside the boys, who watch briefly, then return to manoeuvring Henry's tin soldiers.

It is not a report that awaits Elizabeth's attention when she seats herself in the Council chamber, but instead a rough pamphlet. Crudely printed, the poorly made paper sports a badly carved woodcut image upon the front of a woman in enormous skirts being flung upon a bonfire before a bishop and a monk. Beneath it, a simple legend: _The whore of England cast to Hell before England's saints._

If any of the councillors expect her to be shocked, Elizabeth startles them all by showing only amusement, "I am most poorly executed - in all contexts, it seems." She looks up at them all, "Oh, whist now! I am well aware that the Vicar of Rome views me so! This is naught but a wild strike by the fools from Douai who seek a counter-reformation that none desire! If any at this table require me to seek heads for this, then I should be a fool to bow to such an answer!"

"That may be so, Majesty," Richmond answers, quietly, "I suggest that you read the text upon the other side. The pamphlets were turned over to receive more text upon the other face."

She complies, her eyes widening in dismay - and anger - at the words, "So, I am the wanton spawn of a whore who murdered a queen, and shall die for it." She says, "My children are half-breed monsters who are saved only by virtue of the one who fathered them and should be removed to be educated by those who can protect them from my vile heresy." She stops.

Everyone exchanges angry glances; to threaten Elizabeth is of little concern to her; she is well aware that not all love her, even if her subjects do. No; it is the demand that her sons be removed from her care and handed to others - presumably monks - to be moulded into espousing the same bigotry that inspired the pamphlet.

Beside her, Philip's face has reddened with rage, "If they presume to do so, then they shall find themselves obliged to contend with me. Even if they claim to share my faith, to suggest that true Englishmen should regain the favour of Rome by stealing our sons proves that they do not. Not even a fraction of it."

"To my mind," Richmond sighs, "They would think you to be willingly complicit in their plans on that very basis."

"And they would be wrong." Philip snaps, "_Most_ wrong."

"Why do we not round them up?" Dudley suddenly breaks in, "Every damned one of them? If they seek martyrdom, then let them have it!"

Richmond turns to him, "Martyrdom? God help us, no. To make martyrs is to bring more to the cause that they profess. We must be wiser than that; we must…"

"No!" Dudley is on his feet, his chair falling back behind him with a loud crash that startles all at the table, "You would risk the life of our Queen? Our Princes? For what? To prove that we are _better_ than they? You coward! We must fight this contagion - before Popery destroys all that we hold dear!"

"_Popery_?" Richmond's eyes are equally angry, though he is unable to rise so easily, "I will _not_ be party to the descent of our realm into internecine war! Englishmen live side by side as brothers, regardless of their professed faith; to strike against one faith over another would destroy that! Would you be willing to grant disaffected men the opportunity to claim a cause to fight against those who do not agree with them?"

"To protect our Queen?" Dudley demands, viciously, "Would you wish to see her harmed by your cowardice? By Christ, I would see you banished from this table for such poltroonery! What use are you to the realm, you womanish old fool?"

"_BE SILENT!_"

Everyone freezes still; never having heard Elizabeth raise her voice before. Her eyes narrowed, her face pale but for two red patches upon her cheeks, she glares at Dudley, "Do not presume to decide who sits upon my council, my Lord. His Grace of Richmond has given greater service to this realm than any who sit at this table. He served my father, then my mother, and now serves me. Furthermore, he is right. For us to act punitively against those who seek out of desperation to impugn me would serve only to set fuel to the fire that they are so keen to spark. We are not blind to the danger that this pamphlet aims to inspire. It serves you ill to pretend that you are the only one amongst us who can see it. Speak so to my Lord Chancellor again, and I shall remove you from my Council."

Northumberland chews at his lip with embarrassment as Dudley is obliged - face flaming with shame - to resume his seat. Beside him, Lisle and Warwick exchange equally uncomfortable glances. Their brother has - finally - allowed his impetuosity to overstep his bounds.

"Forgive me, Majesty," Dudley mumbles, thoroughly chastened, "My desire to protect you caused me to speak out of turn."

"And what of his Grace of Richmond?" Northumberland interjects, quietly.

"There is no need." Richmond says, "We are all intent upon her Majesty's safety, and that of their highnesses. We shall discuss our differences in private over pots of ale, and all shall be made right again." His expression changes slightly, "Besides, in spite of the manner in which Sir Robert expressed those concerns, he is correct. We cannot sit upon our hands and do nothing in answer to this."

Elizabeth nods, and smiles fondly at him for his decision not to escalate the argument, "Indeed so, my Lords. I think it would be wise to ensure that sermons are preached against this pamphlet where it is discovered, and those shires watched to see how it is received. Should it become clear that the populace is indeed seduced by this, we shall think again. For now, however, we shall act only where there is violence."

"Majesty," William interjects politely, "While it is clear that this is naught but a scurrilous paper, I shall set my gamekeepers to keep watch upon the boundaries of the estate for more than merely poachers, and none shall be permitted to enter the main gates unless on royal business. The side gates shall be guarded more thoroughly for the duration of your stay. Other than that, we shall permit you to continue your stay without interference."

Elizabeth nods, "Thank you, your Grace. I am saddened that my presence puts you to such inconvenience."

"It is one that I am more than content to bear, Majesty." He smiles at her, "Now that we are decided, perhaps you might like to walk in the park with his Majesty awhile? The afternoon is passing, and perhaps the air might be better outside."

She smiles back, "Thank you, your Grace, I think I should like that."

* * *

Richmond is seated upon a stone bench at the edge of the island garden overlooking the lake when Dudley approaches him. Dudley's steps are slow, as he has no desire to speak to the old man, particularly after being so roundly humiliated in his presence.

As promised, there is a marble-topped table alongside the Lord Chancellor set with a flagon and two cups, and he turns slightly at the sound of crunching gravel, "Ah, Sir Robert. Please: be seated."

"I prefer to stand." Dudley's tone is brittle.

"When you hear what I have to say, Sir Robert, I think you shall be glad that you did. There are some nearby who might overhear if you stand so far away from me."

His expression bitter, he does as bid. For a moment, they sit in silence, looking out over the stone balustrade towards the lake, where swans are gliding across the waters, overlooked by a hazy sky. Beyond, the hill rises to the stable block on the other side.

"How long have you loved her?" Richmond asks, quietly.

Dudley's head turns sharply, "Her?"

"I may be an old man, Sir Robert; but I was once young. I, too, lost my heart to women beyond my reach. You are hardly the first."

Dudley glowers, "I have not done so."

"Come now. Do not lie to me, my Lord. I have little to do these days but observe those around me, and I have seen how you look upon her. Moreover, I have seen your failure to observe the boundaries of protocol on more than one occasion when in her presence. It is not deliberate, I am sure; and I am alone in seeing it, I think."

"And the price of your silence?"

Richmond turns to look at him, "Blackmail, Sir Robert? God, no. I desire nothing from you and would not stoop to such low tactics even if I did. Instead, I plead with you: I see no evil in harmless wishing for that which cannot be. Evil lies instead within allowing that wishing to consume you, and to prompt your actions in your dealings with the lady, and with others. Do not let your feelings for her guide you in this. That is all I wish to say, and I shall not raise the matter again unless I am obliged to. That, however, lies in your hands. Restrain yourself and I shall not need to. You have my word that none of the lady's confidantes shall know of it."

"Should you do so, know that I shall end you. I will _not_ be humiliated by an old fool such as you." Dudley's voice is a low hiss.

"Do not make threats that you cannot fulfil, Sir Robert. I do not see a murderer in you; and I do not think you capable of losing your soul in so foul a fashion. I am a man who has done what you have not: I have used innocent words and twisted them against better men than I with the intent of sending them to the block. My soul is tainted in a manner in which yours is not, and I seek only to beg you to think upon the safety of your soul, and the welfare of your family's name. My lips are sealed, and not even upon my deathbed shall I speak of this."

His expression unchanged, Richmond reaches for one of the cups, "Now, that cup of chilled ale I promised. Again, I do not demand an apology from you, for I know that your words were naught but impetuous determination to protect her Majesty. We all desire that, and I think it better that we work to achieve that aim together. Do you not agree?"

Dudley looks out over the lake, his expression bitter and angry, "Does it entertain you to bring me to this?"

"To what?" Richmond looks bemused, then thinks for a moment, "Ah; you believe me to think that I have bested you in some fashion. That was not my intent; you are a man of her Majesty's Council, as am I. Her Majesty's father delighted in conflict between his councillors, as he found it a useful means to control them. Her Majesty's mother sought to create a different way - and her Majesty continues that. Factions are not helpful to the realm, and thus I do not belong to one. I offer naught but the opportunity sup cool ale as the day draws towards suppertime. I shall join my family to sup, so you need not see me again until the morn."

Slowly, Dudley reaches out and takes the cup. For a while, he peruses it, "Let me demonstrate to you how I regard your peace offering." Slowly, he tilts the cup, and pours the ale out onto the gravel, "I meant what I said in the council chamber, you old fool." His voice is perhaps a little louder than it should be - but there are none nearby, "You are irrelevant to England now. It is mere sentiment that keeps you at that table in a capacity that you do not deserve. The sooner you are gone, and your senile fancies taken with you, the better."

To his surprise, it is clear that his words have hit home; for Richmond has gone very silent, and his expression is almost stricken. In that moment Dudley realises that he has been unnecessarily cruel; but the words are spoken now, and he cannot take them back. Embarrassed, he rises and hastens away.

Richmond attempts to reach for the other cup as though nothing has happened, only to find his hand shaking. Drawing his arm back, he bites his lip and tries to stop the brimming tears.

* * *

William is talking to Martin at the stables to arrange for the gamekeepers who already regularly patrol the boundaries of the estate to do so on horseback. Left to her own devices, as Elizabeth and Philip have followed his suggestion that they walk in the park together, Anne emerges from the house into the old inner ward of the castle, and almost has to leap aside as Dudley marches past her as though she is not even there.

Startled, she does not have time to challenge him as he disappears into the house, but she can see a grey-haired figure seated across beside the balustrade overlooking the lake and surmises what must have happened.

"I take it that Sir Robert did not enjoy his conversation with you, my friend?" She says, sitting down beside Richmond.

He does not answer, and she turns to see that he is distressed, "What is it, Richard?"

"Am I too old, my Lady Anne?" he asks, painfully, "Is my presence upon the Council a burden rather than a help?"

She stares at him, bemused at such a statement, then takes his hand in both of hers, "Is that what the Dudley fool told you? God's blood, no! You have proved even now to be a voice of reason amongst the hotheads that share her Majesty's table!"

"There is another Robert here that desires my death, then. My son longs for me to depart this world and grant him his inheritance, while Northumberland's does likewise in hopes of profiting from the space I would leave upon the council." He stares out over the lake, "Truly now I am being made to pay for my duplicity when our late King ruled."

"I do not believe that. Not for a moment, my old friend." Anne insists, firmly, "When we first set out to win Elizabeth's rights as queen, you won my trust with your loyalty and service - and thus I am certain you redeemed yourself for your acts before Henry died. In the absence of our late lord of Essex, God rest his dear soul, there is no other to whom I would rather turn if the realm were to be in peril.

"Who else upon the Council has your knowledge and experience? Who else stood at my side, and then Elizabeth's, when Mary tried to steal her crown - not once, but twice? Who else overcame his fear and kept faith with us in the face of the plague even when he was the only man left upon his feet? We are old, yes; but we still offer her Majesty loyal and experienced service. No matter what is to come, we shall - between us - protect her as we have always done. Old Tom Cromwell should rise from his grave to berate us for our failure if we did aught otherwise."

Finally, he laughs, "What a fool I am; I thought myself past such maudlin sentiments. Jesu, my dear Lizzie is here, as are her boys, and I am cowed by the bitterness of a young man who envies my position!"

Anne smiles, but then her face becomes more serious, "That said, while his manner of doing so was most inappropriate, I share his concerns. Elizabeth is aware of the threats ranged against her, even in the absence of a direct rival; but nonetheless, she places such belief in the love of her subjects, that any disaffected burgher with a blade could strike her down with impunity."

Richmond shakes his head, "I think that it would be more than mere disaffection. His Grace has done what he can to increase the security of the estate while she is here - and only one who has declared it to be a mission for God would risk making the attempt. Besides, there is no way to reach her without entering through the main House, and who would get that far with her Majesty's royal guard in residence?"

"Perhaps; but sometimes I wonder if our work to bring harmony to England in matters of faith has hobbled her Majesty in her dealings with those who wish to inflict discord." Anne sighs, "Throughout my Regency, I was determined to ensure that no decision of mine would turn back upon her. Perhaps this has?"

"I think not." Richmond disagrees, "We have clearly established the equal supremacy of both faiths in matters spiritual, while seeking all Englishmen to look to her Majesty as their Queen in matters temporal. _Render unto Caesar_ is perhaps a watchword in the parishes now. If you seek a realm in which one faith is less than the other, then look to France - for there is a kingdom in which religious strife is evident in almost all strata of society. I think we have found the better way - and only those who are not here see otherwise."

Anne nods, and is about to answer, but then looks up, startled, "Thunder?"

They both raise their eyes skywards. In the time that they have been talking, the clouds have massed and built into great towers, and on the other side of the trees in the distance, a thick shaft of dark grey announces a great deal of rain to come.

"Come, Richard; we must get you inside." Already Anne is rising to her feet.

"What of their Majesties? Did they not go walking in the park?"

"I sent them to our new ornamental garden; there is a grotto there in which they can shelter for the time being. I shall dispatch grooms with horses for them as soon as the rain is past."

Trying not to hurry him too much, Anne grasps Richmond's sticks and assists him to rise, before guiding him to the shelter of the house.

* * *

Elizabeth fans herself as she walks alongside her husband. As they are in private, she has reverted to Portuguese again for their conversation. In spite of the trouble being stirred in her realm, she has learned to set aside such concerns when she is at leisure. How else is she to find rest from the cares of rule?

"I shall be glad when this heat breaks, Lizzie." Filipe sighs, mopping at his face with a kerchief. As they are in private, he has unfastened his doublet. She wishes that she could escape from the thick confines of her overgown; but it would be far more trouble to do so.

Their conversation has been entirely of little matters; plans for a new hunting lodge that has been gifted to them from Northumberland, a new tutor for Hal as he is showing an aptitude for languages that his current tutor cannot meet, designs for the privy garden at Placentia, which are showing signs of age now. Their surroundings are very inviting, and assuredly form the basis of their new plans.

In spite of the thickness of her sleeves, Elizabeth leans close to her husband, and he releases her arm to rest his about her shoulders. Such times as this are all too rare, and she is grateful that his Grace and Mama have created a shady ornamental garden in which to escape the summer heat. The dappled shadows of the leaves on the trees are most soothing to watch as they drift back and forth in the breeze.

They pause and sit together on a stone bench, a fountain playing nearby, "I wish that this could go on forever, Filipe."

"Then I shall seek to the Lord to stop the day, and thus we shall live in this one moment for all of eternity."

"But then we would be without our dear sons, would we not?" she teases him, "I think it is better that we hold our peace upon that."

His fingertip traces along the line of her chin, "Then I shall savour this moment instead."

Instinctively her lips seek out his, all of her love for him vivid in the intensity of the kiss. For all the privacy that has been afforded to them, they have had little opportunity for intimacy in a household so busy with attendants. Even here, it is too open - what if a gardener came upon them?

"Oh, God; if I could…" Filipe breathes, as she breaks from him, her own breathing quickening with desire; but she, too, knows that there is too great a risk of being found, and she forces herself to sit quietly, her eyes seeking out those dancing shadows; only to find them gone.

Bemused, she looks up and can see through the leaves that the sky is no longer blue, lost behind a cover of grey as clouds draw in. It seems that the heavy heat of the day has sent them a rude intruder.

Then they hear it: a grumble of thunder off to the north and then a pattering sound. Drops of water land about them, and upon them, and then it is suddenly a deluge.

Shrieking, Elizabeth leaps to her feet, Filipe in tow, and gathers up her skirts to run for the only shelter nearby. Within, the ornamental grotto is a cool, slightly damp, space that is free from the pounding water that has already drenched her overgown, and is leaching cold fingers of chilly dampness through her kirtle and chemise.

Her husband is equally sodden, and laughs as she leads him through the tunnel into a wide, open cavern. There are benches around the walls, and small niches in which Greek goddesses look upon them with eyes of marble, their bodies smooth and firm, unclad and invitingly erotic.

"Help me, Filipe, I can hardly move in this sodden velvet." Elizabeth is struggling with her lacing, eager to remove the heavy fabric that still soaks the garments beneath. His fingers are cold, and he struggles for a moment with the knots, but once they are unfastened, he is able to loosen the multitude of crossed lacings, and ease her out of the massive gown. Beneath, her kirtle is at least mostly dry, and she examines the seams, "There, that is better. Here, get out of that doublet, my love; it is as wet as the overgown."

It is as that rogue garment falls to the floor that it begins, an urgent wave of desire that will not be ignored. In an instant, she is reaching for his shirt to pull it over his head, her fingertips, then her lips, upon his firm body, "Take me, Filipe: I need you, I need you…" her breathing is fast, her eyes dilated, as her kisses rise up his chest, over his throat and to his mouth.

"A moment, dear one," he whispers, turning her about. She moans with frustration at the delay as he fumbles again with the lacings of her kirtle. Wildly, almost desperately, she forces herself out of the sleeves to remove the garment, and then must wait yet _again_ for him to do the same with her stays.

Then, finally, she has only the chemise to discard, flinging it aside with almost wanton abandon. They have _never_ been granted such privacy as this: decorum be damned.

Shivering with excitement, she turns to him, and fights with his codpiece and hose to free him. His expression is as hungry as hers; a deep, painful longing to give in to that most ancient, animal desire and sate it.

High above them, the sky rages in a maelstrom of wind and rain; but they know nothing of it, sheltered and guarded by a cavalcade of nymphs as their passion beats a counterpoint of equal power to the storm.

* * *

Elizabeth shifts slightly, and opens her eyes a little drowsily. For a moment, she wonders where she is, and then her hand brushes against her hip.

Startled, she lifts her head, and realises that her only garments are her stockings, and she remembers where she is. If she is shocked, it is only for a moment. Most who undertake that act of procreation do so with their garments still in place…

Then she remembers _why_ they are there. God have mercy, how long have they been here? She lost all track of the passing of the hours as she and Filipe lay together, sating that initial maddened desire, then allowing him to reawaken her with gentle fingertips to accept him again, and again…

There…a distant rumble of thunder. Her light doze has not left them open to discovery.

They are lying upon her enormous overgown, their other garments spread about it to ensure that they were not obliged to be unclad upon a cold stone floor. In spite of the breaking of the weather, the heat that preceded it remains to some degree inside the grotto, so she does not shiver with cold in spite of her nakedness.

She lies back upon the heavy velvet with a sigh of joyful satisfaction. How can any priest claim that this is for the sole purpose of creating children? If that is so, then that shivering pleasure that her husband visited upon her is a gift for the burden of bearing the child. She had cried out at it, writhing and pleading for it to stop, yet not wanting it to…

Beside her, Filipe breathes in more overtly as he, too, wakes. He turns onto his side, that firm round of his shoulder enticing her to reach out to rest her hand upon it.

"Are you contented, your Majesty?" he asks, softly.

"Yes…" she whispers, "_most_ contented."

His face falls a little, they shall be searching for us, I think."

"I heard thunder. Perhaps we slept only a few minutes." Elizabeth sits up, and sighs, "I wish that I could remain here - enfolded in your arms and free to enjoy your touch at will…"

"But you are Queen, and thus cannot." Filipe agrees, rising to sit beside her. For a moment, she feels as though she is Eve, in that first moment of innocence in the Garden of Eden, before evil entered the world. But now the world demands her back.

"Let me pretend I am not. Just for a little longer." She pleads, reaching for his shirt and doublet, while he gathers his hose, "Is it not right that a wife should dress her husband?"

"If it allows me to look upon you in your most beautiful aspect, then I shall permit it." He smiles at her, reaching out for a moment to stroke a pert breast.

It takes only a short time to dress him, before he assists Elizabeth in retrieving her enormous number of garments. First the chemise, then the stays, the petticoats and the bum-roll. Then the kirtle, and the overgown. Her hair is a cascade of copper down her back, all the pins scattered as he unfurled it. She laughs at him as he grovels upon the floor for each and every one, "Come now, Filipe, once we are seen, who shall truly believe that all we did when caught in the storm was seek shelter and talk awhile? Even if they do, then they shall suspect otherwise."

He sighs, "Even so, there are some who shall disapprove."

"Let them." Elizabeth answers, cheerfully, "We shall endeavour to enter the house surreptitiously, thereby giving rumours as little chance to take root as we can. I shall not permit any disapproving old maid to besmirch what we did."

"Nor shall I." He kisses her again, this time a chaste, loving kiss between husband and wife, "This shall live in my heart as a memory that none shall take from me. Perhaps I shall have a grotto built at Knole, to flee there again in inclement weather."

Her eyes luminous, Elizabeth smiles at him, "I should be delighted with that."

The rain has largely ceased as they emerge into the daylight again, the paths awash with water from the deluge. Thunder still rumbles occasionally in the far distance, but it seems that they are now safe to leave the garden without fear of another dousing.

Very, very close together, and perhaps a little reluctantly, the Queen and her beloved consort abandon the grotto, and make their way back to the house.


	10. The Benefit of too much Pepper

**A/N:** Thank you for your favourites and comments! As always, very welcome. Robert Dudley is headstrong, ambitious and highly impetuous - and gets defensive very easily when challenged. Now, it's going to bite him on the BTM very, very hard.

By the way, for those who haven't been to Leeds Castle, while the main house and the Gloriette are on an island, on one side - which overlooks the grassed area where I've set up the bowling green - the lake comes up to the curtain wall of the island; but on the other, there's narrow stretch of land which houses a pathway. This is significant to the events that unfurl in this chapter...

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

_The Benefit of too much Pepper_

"There have been more pamphlets uncovered in towns across England, Majesty." Northumberland's voice is grim, "Fortunately, they have been handed to the Town constables by angry townsfolk - many of them Catholic - and it is clear that only a lack of knowledge of the identity of those who distribute them has prevented acts of violence by those who are finding them."

Elizabeth sighs, her expression dismayed. The only good thing is that they are clearly falling upon stony ground with the populace of her realm; but nonetheless, they remain undaunted.

"They are not evil men," She observes, "merely misguided. The are afire with their faith, and believe that those who do not share it are doomed to damnation. They act as they do with the intent of saving those whom they believe to be destined for hell."

"That may be so, Majesty," Northumberland adds, "but nonetheless, they are intent upon inducing the populace to reject you as their queen. My chamberlain has warned me that there are rumours of other pamphlets that offer absolution from the sin of murder if it is the murder of your Majesty."

"What?" Philip's expression changes to one of anger, "Who speaks of such a thing?"

"At this time, I know not," Northumberland admits, "But my Lord of Richmond and I have set men to work upon identifying the source. It is likely to be someone who is not upon these shores, however. Only someone who is not in England would risk expressing such sentiments so openly."

"Besides," Richmond adds, "To do so without sanction from Rome would negate any such offer. Only a Papal Bull could grant absolution of a crime as grave as this; and there has been no word of such a thing." He sighs, "How it can be that the Pope can issue a law that overturns one of God's commandments is astonishing to me. Only a grave degree of hatred could inspire it."

"One that our current Bishop in Rome would not have the stomach to do." Wiltshire observes, "Not when it is politically expedient to do otherwise. Pius may be a Medici, but he is not a Florentine Medici, so the Queen Regent of France has no claim over him in terms of familial blood."

"And her keenness to overturn your rule, Majesty, is also tempered by that same expedience. Our coffers are well filled with the fruits of peaceful trade, while hers are all but emptied by the ongoing conflicts with her neighbours both within and without her borders. Small, we may be; but we are wealthier than she is at this time - and can afford to put sufficient ships to sea that would keep all away from our shores should the need arise."

Elizabeth shakes her head, "I would be a fool to pretend that there is no risk, my Lords. While my subjects are, in the main, entirely against the sentiments of these slanders against me; I am well aware that a knife is deadly in a single hand. Thus I am grateful for their Graces' precautions for my safety within the bounds of this estate, and I shall send to London to require a larger escort to be sent prior to our departure when our progress comes to an end."

Seated close to her daughter, Anne sighs as well. Religion was at the core of so much of the strife within the realm during her regency, and she is quite convinced that it is the nature of the men who adhere to their religions that are the problem, not the religion itself. Even faith is not immune from the pressure of politics.

"I wish it were not so, Majesty." She admits, sadly, "For all the love that God has laid upon us, the serpent brought us hate, and there are times when that hate is stronger than love. All that we can do is protect ourselves, but set the example that love is the better way. If I must act with a cruel hand, then I would prefer to do so only for the safety of the realm, not for myself."

"That you have been able to do so is a good thing, Majesty," Richmond adds, "And I pray that all dangers to the realm remain far away to keep you from such an obligation."

Her tone is steely, "If I must do so, then I shall, my Lords. I am England's mother, but if I must show claws to protect her, then I shall do so. I should - however - prefer not to be so obliged."

Anne shudders at a sudden memory of a young woman dressed in black, a battered steel cuirass over her bodice. Mary had sought war to claim the realm for herself, and men had died for her presumption; did she feel pain for their suffering upon her behalf? God…those moments when she was obliged to sign away lives with the stroke of a pen…

"Mama?" Elizabeth's hand reaches out to grasp hers, "What ails you?"

Startled, she looks up at her daughter, "Forgive me Majesty, naught but bad memories of a time long gone. I am grateful that you are so keen to keep your subjects protected from the cruelties of war."

"Indeed so." Richmond adds, quietly, "War is ruinous to a realm on all fronts - costly in terms of coin and men. Peace is better for all, and I assure you that I shall work with your Majesties to keep it."

"As shall we all." Northumberland concurs, inspiring a similar rumble of agreement around the table.

"Now, Majesty," Richmond turns to the Queen, "Allow us to fear for the realm upon your behalf while you enjoy this time with your family. Should the need arise, we shall advise you."

Elizabeth smiles at him, fondly, "I shall do so, my Lord; but I ask you not to keep bad tidings from me. If the realm is in peril, then I must know of it."

He nods, "You have our word as your loyal servants, Majesty."

She rises, bringing them to their feet to bow, "Then I shall do as bid, Gentlemen. Thank you."

* * *

In spite of the matter under discussion in the council chamber during the afternoon, Elizabeth refuses to permit it to dictate her actions either as a woman or as Queen, and has spent the afternoon with her sons at a dancing lesson. They do not need to know that men are being anonymously exhorted to murder their mother, after all.

They have been fed a light supper and are shortly to retire, as evening draws in. The air following the storm has been far clearer, and the windows have been closed far earlier than usual as the heat was such that the fear of bad night humours were overruled by the need for comfort.

Mistress Peake and Lady Dudley are present, and wait while the boys say goodnight to their parents before retiring. Once they have departed, however, Anna and Mathias enter to supervise the serving of their Parents' supper.

There are numerous dishes, of course; for even in private the need to impress seems to have infected the hot-tempered Mr Trench. A capon stuffed with forcemeat and nuts, fricassée of veal breast, fresh-baked manchet bread of the finest quality and various candied fruits and nuts to be added to the rich sauces that drench the meats.

Their chaplain gives thanks for the victuals, and blesses the dishes before departing, and - after a considerable time of being required to smell the aromas - Elizabeth and Philip are served portions from the dishes.

Knowing their preferences, Anna and Mathias quietly depart for a time to allow the couple time to speak privately, even though they always converse in Portuguese when in private. Their discussion is of the boys, their lessons and their play: their riding is coming on most well, while Edward's Latin is now excellent both when he speaks it and sets it down upon paper. His French is also reaching a degree of skill that is essential for diplomatic activity, while Hal's attempts are showing improvement too.

Wiping her fingers upon a napkin, Elizabeth briefly reaches out to take her husband's hand, "Thank you."

"What for, my beloved?"

"Our pleasure in the Grotto two days past." Her eyes are dark and warm with the memory of it, "If I am not permitted to enjoy such a tryst again in this life, I shall not mind; for I have known it, and that is a gift that one such as I is unable to be certain of receiving."

His smile deepens, "I shall see to it that there shall be other trysts, Lizzie. I shall build us a grotto at each palace and pray for storms to grant us such privacy again."

She laughs, softly, "I shall not demur, my Filipe; I never knew until that moment what it was to truly _not_ be Queen. For that time, I was a woman, and revelled in the love of a man."

Their talk moves to less intimate matters, and there is nothing shocking in their conversation when Mathias returns with a copper basin and cloths for the couple to wash their hands. He also has the Cook in tow.

"Majesties, Mr Trench is most pleased that you have enjoyed the fruits of his kitchen and hopes that you have found today's delicacies to be to your satisfaction." He does not add that he could not persuade the infuriating man to stay in his kitchen and was left with no choice but to escort him up. He shall ensure that Mr Seton is informed in the morning; such poor manners is not acceptable in royal circles. Perhaps Mr Trench is looking to find employment in the Queen's own kitchen.

As always, Elizabeth is the very model of grace, "Thank you Mathias, please show in Mr Trench." She might reprimand one of her own servants for such behaviour, but it does not do to interfere in the running of a host's house.

His expression obsequious, his manner a touch grovelling, Mr Trench bows at least three times too many, "I am so pleased that your Majesty has found my work to be of such satisfaction, I trust that you particularly enjoyed the turbot?"

Elizabeth is about to answer, but frowns, "Turbot, Mr Tench?"

"Did you not sample it? Majesty? I prepared it especially for you as I am given to understand that you are particularly fond of fish."

"We were not served a fish dish, Mr Trench." She answers, "Though I can assure you that the capon and the veal were most admirable in both appearance and taste, and more than sufficient for my appetite. Perhaps you might serve us Turbot again another night?"

His expression is a little stricken, "I fear I cannot serve it as I did tonight; it was spiced with hot peppers from Spain, of which I had but a peck at best. I shall endeavour to secure more for you."

He starts bowing again; as though his intrusion were not embarrassing enough.

"Thank you, Mr Trench," She says, almost placatingly, "I look forward to it." Her eyes flick towards Mathias, who takes the hint and begins to usher the cook away.

"Ah well, my dear;" Philip laughs, once they are alone again, "I think it would have been impossible eat another dish alongside those we were served. I wonder who has received it?"

"Hopefully someone more amenable to hot peppers than I." Elizabeth shudders.

* * *

"Oh Robert, _do_ stop grousing." Elizabeth Rich of Leighs is irked at her husband's complaining, "Papa Richmond is coming to sup with us, and that is all there is to it. He has spent the afternoon with the children, and is it not right that he spend the evening with us?"

"I have spent more than sufficient evenings with him." Leighs spits, crossly, having shared Richmond's presence in the main hall on a number of occasions when his father was not supping in private.

"But I have not." She reminds him, "We have been here five days and not once has Papa Richmond supped with us. I have barely had a moment to speak to him since we arrived. I do not ask you to converse with him if it is not your preference, but the least you can do is show the courtesy of sharing the table with him."

Leighs pauses, and turns to her. For all his annoyance at his father, and his predilection for infidelity, he loves his wife; and her words are wise, "Forgive me Lisbet. Perhaps I am being a fool; but…"

"But nothing, Robert." She reaches out and takes his hand, "Papa Richmond has been a good father to you, and a loving father in law to me. He adores Richard and Henry, and they love to share his company. It does not serve you well to be angry with him, and it saddens me to see you at odds."

Somehow, she always manages to do it…reminding him that he should be better than he is. His hand reaches up to tuck an escaped curl of chestnut hair under her hairnet. His resentment at being required to curb his philandering seems to fall away in that simple act as he remembers the pleasure of being a Landed Gentleman and _Pater Familias_. Such foolishness.

A knock at the door prompts a steward to emerge from an alcove to open it and admit Lord Richmond, aided by his two sticks. Smiling, Elizabeth crosses to him, kisses him upon the cheek and guides him inside, "Papa Richmond, I am so pleased to see you."

"Ah, my Lisbet. Thank you." Richmond looks across at his son, still smiling, "It is good to be reunited with you both."

Leighs swallows down his resentment, "Come, be seated Father. Her Grace has permitted us to sup in private along with you, and it shall be as it was at Felsted."

Richmond seems to relax a little, relieved that his son shall not make things difficult for him. Once seated, their steward sends for their supper.

"My goodness," Richmond observes at the dishes that are brought in, "Are we hosting another three people, perhaps?"

His observation is quite pertinent, as the stewards set a dish of roasted venison, beef in a rich wine gravy, and a great turbot, glistening with a light sauce dotted with parsley leaves and flecks of red.

"The red is hot pepper from Spain, my Lords," one of the servers advises, "We were advised that it was for Lady Elizabeth."

"How strange." Leighs looks surprised, "I thought you could not tolerate fish, Lisbet - has that changed?"

"I fear it has not, Robert." She also looks bemused, "If this dish was made for me, then the one who prepared it does not know my preferences."

"Or mine," Robert agrees, "I consume fish only when required to."

"Then I shall sample it." Richmond smiles, "For I am not so appalled by the fruits of the sea." Lacking a chaplain, he offers up thanks for their meal before sitting back to await a portion of the fish to be set upon his plate. His son and daughter in law, however, confine themselves to the venison and beef.

He has, however, consumed no more than a few morsels before he stops, "Jesu, what is upon this? My tongue is afire!" He reaches for a mug of ale and gulps at it, "I cannot continue…serve me some of the beef, I beg you!" His expression is amused, for he knows that the hot pepper is the culprit. In the years since he last sampled the spice - when it was even more of a novelty than it is now - he has lost his tolerance for it.

Elizabeth laughs, indicating to the steward to take the dish from beside her, "Whoever sent this to us loves to jest, it seems, Papa Richmond; I am glad that I did not sample it!"

A few more gulps of ale, and a mouthful or two of the beef, and equilibrium is restored. The fish is removed from the chamber, and conversation resumes, "I find that young Dickon is becoming very capable in Latin, and he is beginning to understand the principles of rhetoric most well."

"I think he has inherited your good brain, Father." Robert advises, rather more earnestly than he might have done in other circumstances, "I, too, am proud of his achievements. Young Henry also shows great promise."

"Indeed he does." Richmond answers then coughs, "Indeed he does." He coughs again, and reaches for his wine, "Forgive me, I think I have swallowed a crumb amiss."

"Perhaps it is a fishbone?" Elizabeth asks, concerned as Richmond continues to cough. She rises and hurries to his side, "Papa, are you able to speak?" It is as though he is starting to choke. Perhaps something is lodged in his throat…

Instead, Richmond cries out, a horrid, choking sound, and leans forward, before turning desperately to his left and vomiting violently upon the floor.

"Papa?" Now Leighs is upon his feet, all his animosity lost in a wave of panic at the sight of his father's plight, "Papa! What ails you? Papa!"

Richmond seems unable to answer, his head up now, as though he is unable to suck in sufficient air to breathe. His cheeks are white, his brow dampening with sweat as he fights to keep on living.

Leighs has dreamed of this moment…longed for the time when the last breath would leave his father's body and grant him his inheritance; but instead, now faced with that possibility, instead he is thrust into the fears of a child faced with the loss of a beloved parent, and all that desire is gone.

Elizabeth turns to the steward, "Fetch help!" Then she is concentrating upon Richmond again, who fights to breathe, "What is it? A fishbone?" her hand grasps his, while Leighs dodges the reeking puddle of vomit to grasp the other, "Papa! Is it a fishbone? Squeeze my hand if you cannot speak!"

Everything seems to pass in a blur. Seeing him starting to retch again, Elizabeth grasps a basin and is able to hold it before him as he vomits a second time; but still there is no relief, and Richmond falls back into the chair, his head up as he continues his desperate battle to breathe. Then the room is full of people as servants enter. There is no physician at Leeds, but Mr Seton has arrived, and immediately begins issuing orders that no one else seems to be capable of voicing.

"Quickly, set him abed. James! Send one of the grooms to summon a physician - claim it to be the Queen's command if one will not come! Go!"

Lolling in the chair, Richmond finds himself wondering what everyone is shouting about. He seems to have lost all sense of feeling in his limbs, while the world spins about at horrendous speed. Then he is swaying, and the chamber moves around him as though he were floating across it; before something soft seems to capture him in a warm embrace, and he smiles to himself in pleasure. He shall turn his head to find his beloved Lisbet beside him, and she shall take his hand to lead him into heaven…

And then there is nothing.

* * *

The sound of running feet captures Anne's attention as she sups with her husband, and she looks up in shock as the door is thrust open, "Mr Seton? What has happened?"

"His Grace of Richmond has been taken grievously ill, my Lady - we fear he may have choked upon something, but it is not possible to say. I have summoned a physician…"

Immediately, she is on her feet, "Take me there, Thomas. I must see him!" Despite his age, the thought of losing the last of her early allies is too unbearable to consider.

William hastens to her side, "Go, my love. I shall see to the chamber."

The small gathering in Richmond's bedchamber turns as she arrives. Lady Rich is in tears, while Leighs is startlingly distraught for someone who was so keen upon gaining his long-awaited inheritance. And then she sees him.

He is breathing - just. His complexion has turned a dreadful, dull grey and is sheened with sweat. A pail is nearby, covered with a cloth to conceal the contents, as it is clear that someone has administered a purgative. _Oh…poor dear Richard…_

"I am to blame…" Leighs says, wretchedly, "I longed for my poor father to die…I could never have imagined how cruel it could be that he should face such a thing as this…"

Lady Rich quickly rests her arms about his shoulders as he clasps one of Richmond's hands, "No, my husband, this was not your doing. No matter how much you spoke of it, and I know that you did - for the court is full of rumours, I know that you truly did not mean for Papa Richmond to die."

"Lady Rich is right, my Lord." Anne adds, quietly, as she crosses to the other side of the bed to lean over Richmond and rest a hand upon his forehead, "You are hardly the first heir to desire his inheritance with all speed; but most are not so dismayed when that eventuality is upon them. It is clear to me that - in truth - you love your father."

They remain in silence, praying quietly over Richmond's recumbent form, until a light knock at the door reveals William, his expression grim.

"My Lord?" Anne looks up, startled. He beckons to her, and she hastens from the chamber.

"It was not a fishbone, I fear." William sighs, "One of the scullery boys came upon the rejected dish from which Lord Richmond supped. It seems that the poor creature was half starved and could not restrain himself. Within ten minutes, perhaps less, he too was choking and vomiting. But he had eaten more than a few mouthfuls, and is now dead."

"Poison?" Anne's eyes widen in horror, "Someone attempted to poison Lord Richmond?"

"It would appear so."

"But who would have a motive to do such a thing? I know well that man such as he cannot be where he is without having made enemies along the way…but…"

She frowns, then shakes her head; no. To be so dishonourable…no…

"What?"

"Forgive me, a rogue notion that is - when I think upon it - utter madness."

"If it concerns this act of poisoning, then perhaps it is not."

Anne shakes her head, "No. I cannot countenance…"

She gets no further; behind them, a voice breaks in upon their conversation, "Poison? My father was poisoned?"

Leighs has overheard them.

His eyes sad, William nods, "Though we cannot fathom who might wish to do such a thing."

For a moment, Leighs is very still; but then his expression darkens with rage, "I think that I know. God help me I shall exact payment upon him for his cowardly act!"

"What?" Anne stares at him, "My Lord! My Lord - you cannot leave my Lord of Richmond, stay here…"

"And have that vile poltroon profit from the death of my father? I heard his threat in the garden barely a day ago!"

"Threat?" Again, Anne reaches out to take his hand, "Wait, my Lord. What threat?"

He brushes past her, and she is forced to raise her skirts to run in his wake as he strides off through the corridors to a chamber that she is hoping he will not approach, but knows - in her deepest heart - he will.

Leighs does not wait to be admitted, but instead thrusts the door open, "Damn you, _Sir_ Robert! You coward! Does it bring you joy to destroy another's family? _Does it_?"

Lady Dudley is staring at him, her mouth open in shock, a dish of frumenty still in her hands as she serves the man sitting at the table.

"My Lord!" Anne hastens in behind him, "This is not the time, nor is it the place! I beg you, return to your father, he needs you!"

Livid with rage, Leighs continues, heedless of her words, "Did you think you were safe to speak unheard yesterday afternoon? Did it not occur to you that someone might be walking upon the path alongside the curtain wall beneath you? Or that it was quiet enough for them to hear each vile word that you spoke? God help me, I would have challenged you then; Christ's wounds, I should have done! Then perhaps I could have prevented this vile calumny against him!"

Dudley's expression is a mixture of confusion and anger, as though he knows in what ground the accusation is rooted, but is appalled at the act it suggests.

"I know nothing of this, my Lord," he answers, rising to his feet as his voice also rises in anger, "Of what crime am I accused?"

"Poisoning my father, you coward! Is it not enough that you threaten to end him over whatever filthy secret he has uncovered about you? Must you debase yourself with the underhand use of a woman's weapon?"

Anne winces. At that volume, the word shall be out and across the entire estate before the end of an hour. There are others in the passageway, and she shall be utterly unable to stop them from gossiping. Not a morsel as juicy as this…

"Where is it?" Leighs suddenly leaps forth, wrenching Dudley away from his position at the table, "I cannot believe you have disposed of it so quickly. Where is it?"

"My Lord!" Now Lady Dudley intervenes, her expression appalled, "My Lord! What do you seek?"

Her hands reach out to stop him, while Anne hurries forth to join her, "If he has done as you claim, my Lord, he shall hardly be carrying a vial with him! Cease this foolishness!"

Too late. Even as they reach him, Leighs has wrenched Dudley's scrip from his waist and is emptying the contents over the table.

"Give that back to me! There is nothing in there that shall aid you in such a foolish enterprise! _Give it back!_"

Now, it seems, that Dudley is alarmed after all…perhaps he has kept something there…

But it is not a vial or bottle that clatters onto the damask of the tablecloth; instead something small, gold…an oval of polished metal set with seed pearls.

"Is this the vessel, then?" Leighs snaps, snatching it up, "Even a woman's vessel to carry a woman's weapon!"

Anne's stomach sinks. From her own discussions with Richmond, she can guess what Leighs has grasped. She has never seen it; but it can be nothing else.

There is nothing she can say. Instead, she is forced to watch as Leighs opens the small case, and stares at the contents in confusion.

"What is this?" Slowly he raises it, "Is this that small package that captured your attention so when we were at Ightham? Your _doxy_?"

Lady Dudley stares at it, and at its contents, "Jesu have mercy…" Her shock is clear, and understandable. A scandal such as this could ruin them both.

"So this is the woman of whom my poor Father spoke! You seek to claim the Queen herself! God's wounds, we knew you to be ambitious - but _this_? Shall his Majesty be next to taste your poison?"

"No! No, I could never presume to do such a thing!" Dudley stammers, "It is naught but a foolish fancy! A child's dream! I…I could not hope to win the love of a woman who loves another as she loves…"

Setting the miniature down with the care that one would grant to the woman pictured were she present, Leighs steps forward and stares directly into Dudley's face, "God give me strength, should my father die, I shall end _you_."

"My Lord." Anne reaches for his arm to guide him back, "Come. Your father needs you."

"I did nothing against your father, Leighs!" Dudley shouts across the chamber as he moves back, "But whoever did, only did what you wished for! Now you have it! Rejoice, for _you_ shall now be an Earl!"

Leighs turns back, his rage all the greater, but it is another's voice that cuts across them, "Be _silent_, damn you!"

Everyone stares at Lady Dudley, who is glaring at her husband with a fury that none have ever seen in one so meek.

"Is it not bad enough that you hanker after the Queen in my place? Now I know why you are so jealous of my time in her company! And _you_!" she turns now to Leighs, "Do you think to hurl such accusations without thought? My Lord is many things, I warrant it; but a poisoner? _Never!_"

She silences the chamber; all staring at her as she breathes rather quickly from the exertion of such a bout of temper.

Relieved at the opportunity to regain the initiative, Anne takes hold of Leighs's arm again, "Come, my Lord. Leave this matter to my Lord of Kent and myself. We shall seek out the truth of this. Return to your father's side - it may be that the purgatives that he has received have removed sufficient poison for him to recover from its effects. I have no doubt that he shall be most joyful to awaken from it with you at his side."

"Forgive me, your Grace. I shall do as you ask." Leighs suddenly looks very, very tired.

She watches has he walks away. Something is wrong…something has happened here that is not as it appears. She can feel it…

But feeling is not truth. That is another matter.

* * *

By morning, to Anne's relief, the news from the Lord Chancellor's apartments is much better. While he is greatly weakened by the ordeal, and still sleeps, it is clear that Richmond has survived his bout with that unknown poison, and will recover.

"It appears that he awoke in the small hours, while his son was near, and smiled to see him, before returning to sleep again." Mr Seton reports, discreetly, "I understand that both Leighs and Lady Leighs have remained in prayer since that moment, and perhaps whatever enmity might have existed between them is set aside."

"None of this makes sense, Mr Seton." Anne sighs, setting aside some papers, "I think we should repair to the Kitchens to speak to Mr Trench. For all his foolish ambition, Lady Dudley is right. Sir Robert is not fool enough to believe that his calf love for the lady in question could ever be returned; nor is he sufficiently of a cowardly bent to act against another in so low a fashion. For all the foolish words that I was made to overhear yesternight, it does not seem to be a satisfactory explanation."

"That may be so, my Lady;" Seton advises, "but already the servants are afire with the rumour, and it shall not be long before all know of it. I fear Sir Robert Dudley shall be obliged to endure a great deal of unpleasant scrutiny before the end of today."

"Then we must act quickly." Anne's tone is brisk, "Could you send a steward to call his Grace to join us? I think we must speak to her Majesty first, and then commence an investigation to uncover the truth of the matter."

"Yes, your Grace."

She watches out of the window, wishing that another Thomas were here to aid her. _We were such allies, my old friend_. _How I wish now that you were here to guide me in this - foolish though it is._

God, yes. His sensible countenance, his calm manner of thinking. Those days when she longed for his good opinion, and rejoiced to win it. She is no longer the Regent, that is true; but this crime occurred upon her Estate, and thus she considers it her right, and obligation, to resolve it.


	11. Betrayal

**A/N: **Thank you again for your reviews and views; I'm sorry I'm not posting as frequently as I did with the original story, but here's another chapter...in which the investigation begins, and reveals an entirely unexpected criminal...

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_Betrayal_

Elizabeth is, as Anne expected her to be, appalled at the news, "My Lord of Richmond? Poisoned? But _why_? I have no doubt that he has won himself much enmity in his service to the Crown; but not that one would act against him so. Is there a suspect?"

"Yes, Majesty," William says, quietly, "Though it is a most tenuous suspicion, and her Grace is not convinced of it."

Elizabeth indicates a collection of chairs nearby, alongside the wide windows that look out over the lake, "Come. Tell me all."

Taking a deep breath, and taking her husband's hand, Anne begins, "It is likely that the blame shall be laid upon Sir Robert Dudley, my Elizabeth; for…" she pauses, trying to find a discreet manner of explaining herself, "It appears that he has developed something of a childish admiration for you. My Lord of Richmond noticed it, but did not speak of it to the Court at large, for he learned long ago the need for discretion. We were not aware of how deeply enamoured Sir Robert was - but it seems that he had obtained a miniature of your likeness, and retained it to gaze upon it."

"Ah. So _that _is why my Filipe's men could not find it. It was lost when we were the guests of Sir Richard Clement."

"In itself, it was harmless for he knew he could not claim you; but, in harness with his ambition, it caused him to act foolishly in the council chamber. While you chastised him for his foolishness, and he appeared to have learned from it, his behaviour nonetheless gave Lord Richmond cause to approach him in private. He reacted with bad temper, and made foolish threats without taking care to be sure that he was not overheard. Consequently, when Lord Leighs discovered that his father had been poisoned, he presumed that the act was a consequence of that confrontation. Unfortunately, he made his accusation very loudly, and thus the news is doubtless all about the estate."

"But you think differently, Mama?" Elizabeth asks.

Anne nods, "I have been unjustly accused on many occasions, Elizabeth, and I cannot find it in myself to believe that Mr Dudley has acted in so low a fashion. For all his ambition, he wears his noblility most determinedly, and I have no doubt that he would answer an insult with his fists or his blade - not with poison."

"In that case, we must be assured that either he is indeed the guilty party, and act accordingly, or that he is not, and ensure that his name is not besmirched." Elizabeth's tone is firm, "Mama, I trust you as I trust no other. This is your House, and I am certain that his grace and yourself shall be best placed to uncover the truth of the matter."

Anne nods, "I shall do so, Majesty. Whoever acted against Lord Richmond shall be found; we shall do all that we can to ensure it."

* * *

Anne sits at the desk in her small chamber and broods. She has set herself quite the challenge, and now wonders how to proceed.

"Ah, my old friend Tom; how would you consider this task?" she addresses the empty air, "For all the enemies that Lord Richmond has made in his life, none would bring him down in so mean a fashion. I cannot fathom who would have done this - for I cannot accept that Sir Robert Dudley is the perpetrator. Not through such means as poison."

There is no answer, of course; but she does not seek the counsel of a dead man; instead, she relies upon her memories of their discourse to guide her thoughts. He was so capable of that: listening to her as she thought aloud and allowing her to reach a conclusion of her own devising wherever he could. That their thoughts were so often in unison upon a matter was more owing to the good sense in the idea, than Lord Cromwell's pushing of them.

Data - she requires more data before she can formulate a conclusion. That the poison was in the fish is clear, for Richmond was the only one who ate it; so that is where she should start.

The sound of a strident voice as she approaches the kitchens does not bode well for the interview she must conduct. Mr Trench is in fine voice, bellowing furiously at all around him, "…And when I find the poltroon, I shall boil him in the stock copper! Damn the creature - now I shall be obliged to seek out _another_ scullery boy!"

Copper pots clatter together violently, and there is not a sound from any other voice. Even from without, Anne can sense it: a trembling fear of the one who shouts. It has been years, yes; but she remembers how an outburst of temper from her late Lord could create an atmosphere of remarkable similarity.

Squaring her shoulders, Anne opens the door and enters the enormous kitchens with a determined step. As the Lady of the house, she is one that Trench cannot intimidate with his temper. Being in possession of an equally tempestuous temperament, she has no fear of him, "Mr Trench: a word, if you please."

Trench freezes, a large copper pot in hand, and hastily bows, "Yes, my Lady."

How remarkable; his temper has evaporated in the face of one who holds more power than he. Setting down the pot far more carefully than he probably took it up, he follows Anne to the small closet that serves as his office, and stands meekly as she seats herself in his chair.

"I am come to discuss the unpleasant incident in Lord Richmond's quarters yesternight, Mr Trench. I believe that he was served a dish tainted with poison. While I do not believe for the first moment that you are responsible for this act, I must ask: was there any time during the preparation of the dish that it was not in your view?"

"All of the dishes that are prepared in this kitchen are overseen, my Lady. They do not pass from my view until they are removed to the servery by the scullions. There they are inspected by Mr Seton." Trench's complexion is a little grey now, "I fear I must ask, my Lady: which dish was tainted?"

Anne is surprised; she had assumed that the rumour would have included the dish involved, "It was a turbot, Mr Trench. Though Lady Leighs was surprised to be served it, for she cannot tolerate fishes and thus does not consume them."

"Lady Leighs?" Trench looks bemused, "I do not understand."

"The dish was presented with the instruction that it should be served to the Lady Elizabeth, Mr Trench - she is the only Lady Elizabeth in the house at this time."

It seems impossible that Trench could turn even paler than he is already - but he does, "I did not prepare the dish for Lady Leighs, my Lady; I…"

He stops, but he does not need to continue, for his reaction in itself speaks volumes. Anne's own face pales, as she finishes the statement, "You prepared the dish for the Queen."

"I…I was aware of her liking for the fruits of the sea, my Lady;" the words tumble out of Trench's mouth as he gabbles desperately in the face of the discovery, "the turbot was an excellent specimen and I thought her Majesty would savour it, so…"

"Peace, Mr Trench, I do not believe that you are the assassin." Anne raises a hand to stop him, though her own thoughts are now racing just as quickly. She makes to speak again, but Trench interrupts her, "It could only have been that scullion Daniel Makepeace, that damned papist! He is the one who has fled in the night, it could only have been he!"

"You are sure of it?" Anne's voice is hard now, though more to intimidate the panicking cook than out of certainty that the perpetrator is known. It is easy to lay blame upon one who is absent when one fears for one's own skin, after all, "Was he the one who carried the dish to the servery?"

"Er…" she can see it - Trench frantically racking his memory to remember who took the dish.

"You cannot remember, can you?" Her tone is now very cold, "If you cannot be sure, then have a care over who you blame for this. Even in the face of assassination, her Majesty is not one to strike out without thought. Vengeance is not always justice, and I will _not_ have this progress marred by such an act."

There is little point in saying more. Her eyes cold, she rises from the seat and departs. It is only once she has closed the door to the kitchens that her fears finally show themselves upon her face. Someone has tried to murder the Queen…someone has tried to kill her child.

Her expression rigid as stone, she goes in search of William; Elizabeth must know for whom that dish was meant.

* * *

"The dish was meant for her Majesty?" William is appalled, "Much as it distresses me to say it, God was good to us yesternight; for much as my Lord of Richmond was sickened, what would have happened had her Majesty sampled that dish?"

"I should rather none had been sickened, William." Anne sighs, fidgeting with a button upon his doublet as he draws her in close, "Knowing that my Elizabeth was the intended victim changes everything; for now the motive is harder to discern. She is loved by her subjects, I have no doubt of it; but I am no fool. Even now there are some who see her as a bastard usurper, and others who despise her for not restoring England to Rome. Even those who would fight such restoration hate her for permitting others to remain Roman. Who might have plotted to act against her?"

"It is hard, my love." He agrees, "Any fool can travel through life without causing offence, but to navigate a course such as this is hard, and Elizabeth has never flinched from the burden. It is inevitable that no all shall love her for the course that she has set."

"Come, my Lord. We must advise her of this." Anne disengages from him, "For all the danger that she seems to face, it is the keeping of this news from her that shall be of the greatest concern to her. Then we must gather the council."

* * *

The princes are at their riding lesson when Anne and William are shown back into the great hall of the gloriette. Elizabeth is engrossed in a double translation exercise again - a favoured pastime - and looks up with a smile as her mother and stepfather approach, "Mama! Lord Kent! Is there news of Lord Richmond? Is he recovering?"

Anne curtseys deeply, as custom demands, but then bites her lip nervously. How can she tell her daughter that someone has attempted to murder her in the most underhand and cowardly fashion?

Elizabeth's face falls, "Has there been a relapse? Should I go to him?"

"No, Majesty," William answers, as Anne seems unable to speak, "my Lady Anne questioned Mr Trench this morning, and it seems that the dish that was served to the Leighs family was in fact intended for you."

"The turbot?" Elizabeth sets down her quill, "So that is where it went…"

"Does it not concern you, Elizabeth?" Anne interrupts, sharply, "Had it not done so, then it might be that I would be mourning you this day!"

Elizabeth does not react, but instead turns to Anna Conti, "Could you send for Matthias to call his Majesty, please?"

Rising from her writing desk, she crosses the hall to take Anne's hands, "Forgive me, Mother; but I am hardly unaware of the risk of an assassin. I know that there are some in England who wish me dead in favour of another candidate - any other candidate - but I choose not to think of it too much; for there is little worth in fretting over a matter that is in God's hands."

"I shall engage a taster as soon as possible." Anne insists, "How is it that you do not have one?"

"I did; but I did not think that I should require one in your house, Mama."

"I trust myself and all who work under this roof, my Elizabeth - but there is no accounting for those who might bribe, or force, one of my servants to act against you."

"Perhaps; but God saw fit to protect me, and was kind to Lord Richmond by ensuring that the fish was seasoned in such manner that he could not sample more than a few mouthfuls."

"I fear He did not grant such protection to the scullion who came upon the discarded dish and fell upon it as one half starved." William admits, quietly, "Quite why the boy was in so ravenous a state, we shall have to consider at a later time; but he is dead. That Lord Richmond survived is a matter of relief; but there was, nonetheless, a victim."

Elizabeth's face falls at once, "The poison took a life?" Dismayed, she crosses to a chair and sits down rather heavily, "Forgive my misplaced pleasure, Holy Father; I did not know that a life was lost to it."

A scuffling at the door catches their attention as Philip hastens into the Hall, "Lizzie! What happened? I hear tell of poison!"

And suddenly Elizabeth is in tears, "A boy is dead, Filipe! God forgive me, I was celebrating that I was delivered, as was Lord Richmond; but a boy died!"

"What? What is it?" Horrified, Philip looks up as he enfolds his weeping queen in his arms, "What has happened?"

It is William who answers, as Anne is too dismayed by Elizabeth's weeping, "The dish of turbot that was not served to you yesternight was instead served by mistake to the Leighs family in Lord Richmond's chamber. He alone sampled it, but found it too strongly spiced for his taste. What none knew was that the fish had been laced with poison. As he had taken so little of it, however, he was grievously sickened, but lived. A starving scullery boy was not so fortunate."

Philip's eyes harden, "Are any suspected of this deed?"

"At this time, we have no suspects, Majesty." William admits, quietly, "Lord Leighs accused Sir Robert Dudley for reasons that are spurious at best and were driven by anger and grief; for he believed that the dish had been meant for his father. Mr Trench claims that a young scullion who fled in the night is responsible; but again, the fugitive is not the first to have done so, and it may be that his flight was inspired by Mr Trench's temper. We cannot be certain of it."

Elizabeth looks up, sniffing and mopping at her tears with a kerchief, "Ensure that this matter is investigated, yes; but do not involve the Council. I will not have this known by all."

"Majesty?" William is startled at the suggestion, "Your Council should be informed of this attempt upon your life."

"They should not. You do not know it, I fear; but this is hardly the first time that I have faced such an act against me."

"What?" Anne looks up, shocked, "You have been threatened and spoke not of it to me? I am your mother!"

"And I am your Queen." Elizabeth answers, calmly, "The forces ranged against me are many, and I am not fool enough to believe that I am utterly safe in all that I do. If this is a plot, then we shall crush it; but if it is one man acting alone, then we must apprehend him, and only him. I am well aware of the delicate balance in England between those who desire to worship only one faith and eradicate the other. That is, I fear, the one issue that might divide England should we permit it. Thus we retain an edifice of pretence that all is well, and that I guide England as her mother."

"Forgive me, Majesty." Anne is contrite, "I am unable to leave such a matter unconsidered."

"For you are my mother; and thus there is nothing to forgive." Elizabeth answers, "We must be discreet, Mama. Should it be known that an attempt was made upon my life, then some might claim it as a pretext to bring violent retribution upon those they deem responsible for it. I cannot let that happen - who knows where it might end?"

Anne shudders at the thought. Civil war, possibly; or - worse - invasion by France or Spain in the face of perceived cruelties against her Majesty's catholic subjects…

"Then we shall strive for discretion, my Queen." She declares, "I shall ask my Lord Hackney to aid us; for, in the absence of Lord Richmond, there is no other who is as well organised and quick thinking."

"See to it, Mama; ensure that the guilty party is identified - particularly for those who may have been wrongly accused."

"We shall, my Elizabeth." Anne rises and curtseys again, "My Lord, let us seek out Lord Hackney…"

"I should be grateful if you could stay awhile, Mama." Elizabeth interrupts, "Could you commence the investigations, your Grace? Anna, I should appreciate a private moment with my family."

"I shall see to it." William bows and backs away a few paces before turning to depart. Anna also curtseys and does likewise.

As soon as the door is closed, Elizabeth turns to Anne, "Sir Robert Dudley - while it seems that he has developed a foolish affection for me, how deep is it? Now that you have advised me of it, much of his behaviour these past weeks is more understandable; but if it is an ungovernable passion, then I cannot have him at Court."

"I think it is not, Elizabeth." Anne muses, "When Lord Leighs accused him, he was most dismayed, and stated openly that he did not believe for even the first moment that he would be able to wrench you from your marriage. It was a foolish calf-love and fantasy, but nothing more. I think it likely that he himself shall be considering retirement from Court in the face of the humiliation of its discovery."

"In which case, I shall speak to him in private. If you could attend as a chaperone, I should appreciate it. I must settle this matter, for I have no wish to permit his humiliation to stain the service of his family."

Anne nods, "I do not know him well enough to assess his worth to the Council, but Lord Richmond is of the opinion that, should he cast this foolishness aside, he shall serve you most well. I suspect that this incident shall prompt him to do so."

"Once the perpetrator is identified, we shall call upon him, then."

"We shall." Anne smiles.

* * *

Hackney's expression is grim. They have set aside a small, sunlit chamber for their discussions, as the door is thicker than most in the house, and a curtain can be pulled across it to keep out the draughts. That it will keep sound in is also to be hoped for.

"I hear that his Grace of Richmond has awoken and, while weak, is otherwise recovering well."

"That is so, thanks be to God." Anne agrees.

They are sitting at a table of highly polished beech, with sheets of rough paper cast about for notes of their discussions. While not a member of the Regent's inner circle, Hackney is one of the few of those original councillors, and Anne is well aware of his talent and discretion.

"Mr Trench is unable to recall which of the scullions transferred the dish of turbot to the servery." He states, carefully noting it down, "Therefore it cannot be verified who laced the dish with poison. We are sure that it was not done while the fish was being prepared?"

"That would be unlikely, I think." William muses, "It cannot be certain that the poison might have been rendered ineffective by the heat of the broiling, therefore it might have been in the spiced oil, or added after the dish was completed."

"If it was placed in the oil, then who prepared that?" Hackney asks.

"Probably Mr Trench himself." Anne admits, "I have found him to be utterly fastidious about the preparation of his dishes. He demands the right to garnish them personally, and Mr Seton has conveyed complaints from the other cooks on many occasions where Mr Trench has demanded that he garnish their work and claim the credit for it."

"Forgive me, my Lady; but he sounds to me to be an unutterable ninny."

William snorts into his claret in amusement.

"I think it safe to say that the poison was added to the dish after it left the kitchen; though it cannot be easily said whose hand was involved." Anne sighs, " We need to discover who took it to the servery. If it was this Daniel Makepeace, then we must find him."

"I trust we are not leaping to a conclusion without adequate proof?" Hackney adds, "The servery at such times is a hive of activity. It is quite possible that Makepeace delivered the dish and departed, only for another individual to apply the poison either before - or after - Mr Seton made his inspection. We must speak to the servery staff, I think."

"I shall do it." Anne volunteers, "The servers and scullions are all young boys - to intimidate them would grant us nothing of worth."

William smiles at her, "And they know that you are a good and kindly mistress, so they shall be less fearful of you."

"I shall speak to them individually and discreetly." Anne continues, "Let it be known that I am concerned that they are afraid that they might be blamed, and I wish to assure them, each in turn, that I do not think that. Once I have spoken to them, Mr Seton shall give them a half hour's furlough on the bowling green; thus there shall be no opportunity for them to return to the kitchens and blab to their fellows of the true reason for their visit to me."

"I think that the most suitable place would be your privy chamber, my love." William adds, "Then his Grace of Hackney can conceal himself behind the arras with his papers and make notes."

"An excellent idea." Hackney approves, "Shall we begin at once?"

* * *

As she speaks to each of the youngest of her servants in turn, Anne's overriding impression is that the scullions are meanly dressed, fearful and thin. Each of them is terrified of her, as though they believe she might beat them for not answering her as she wishes, and it takes all of her powers of persuasion to gain even a glimmer of trust.

Each of them is convinced that he is to be blamed for the poisoning - all know if it now - and one burst into tears at the very sight of her. That had been a difficult conversation, as she was quite certain that he would faint before she had even seated him.

"Come now, Timothy, I am no demon - I assure you. I have not brought you here to accuse you, for there is no reason to. All I ask is that you tell me what you saw while delivering the dishes to the servery."

"Yes Ma'am." The boy sniffles, fretfully. God's wounds: he is trembling.

"Did you see who carried the dish of turbot to the servery?"

He nods.

"Who was it?" She does not wish to lead him.

"Daniel Makepeace." Timothy whispers.

"What did he do then?"

"Went back into the kitchen. Mr Trench don't like it if we dither at the servery. We gets a clip about the ear if we're too slow. He took his belt to Daniel two days back."

Anne's eyes widen, "Why would he do that?"

"He dropped the ash box."

"Ash box?"

"For the coppers, Ma'am. We use ashes to scour the outsides."

"Did you see Daniel again after that?"

"Mr Trench shut him in a closet because he tripped over a flagstone on the way back in. We heard him crying - Daniel's scared of the dark you see, Ma'am."

Anne remains quiet, but struggles to accept that she has permitted such cruelty in her own household - even out of ignorance. No wonder Daniel ran away.

"Did Daniel have a religious preference, Timothy?"

"Not that I knows of, Ma'am. Mr Trench called him a 'useless papist', but he never said he was one. He calls everyone that makes him angry a papist."

She sighs. Helpful in some respects, but not in others, "Thank you Timothy. Mr Seton will show you out to the bowling green, where I have set some games for you and your fellows to play awhile. If Mr Trench objects, I assure you that he shall answer to me."

For the first time since his arrival, the boy smiles, "Thank you Ma'am."

As soon as he is gone, Hackney emerges from his hiding place, "So we know that Daniel did indeed carry the fish to the servery - but he did not have the opportunity to poison the dish. He is innocent of the crime; but there is little else of use."

"Not as far as I am concerned. There was sufficient evidence for me."

"To do what, my Lady?"

'To dismiss Mr Trench." Anne snaps. Hackney, however, is right: while they have exonerated young Makepeace, they have opened up a greater problem. If Makepeace did not poison the fish, who did?

* * *

The youth in the chair opposite Anne - the last of her interviewees - looks terribly uncomfortable. One of the servers, he is in better condition than the scullions, for certain; but his fear is almost palpable.

"You delivered the dish to Lord Richmond's quarters, I believe?" Anne asks.

He nods, but cannot speak.

"Did you carry it from the Servery?"

Nod.

"Who advised you it was for the Lady Elizabeth?"

"Daniel Makepeace, but he was in a hurry and speaking very quickly. It was noisy, and I just heard 'Elizabeth'. There was only one Lady Elizabeth, so I thought he meant Lady Leighs." Like the others, he gabbles hastily, frantic to demonstrate that he is not to blame.

"When did he do that?"

"When he put the dish in the servery. It needed to be seen by Mr Seton before I could take it, so I waited until then before I took it up."

"Did you see anyone approach the dish?"

"No Ma'am. I had it in my sight from then until I was told to take it. Only Mr Seton was near it."

"Did you see what he did?" Already, a horrible suspicion is forming in Anne's mind.

"No Ma'am. But he took quite a time to look it over. Everything else was cleared as soon as he'd seen it - but not that one."

"I see. As it was originally intended for the Queen, I am not surprised he took more care over it." Anne says. Better to pretend that than to send the boy out to gossip over the suspicion that she has.

"That was my thought, Ma'am."

"Thank you. Please rest assured that you are not responsible for what happened - join the boys upon the bowling green awhile. There are three hours yet until your services are required for dinner."

"Thank you Ma'am."

She escorts him to the door and opens it to see Seton standing at the far end, talking amiably to one of his junior stewards. Rather than summon him, she dispatches the boy in the other direction, and returns to the chamber, sitting down rather heavily.

"What is it, your Grace?" Hackney asks, emerging again.

"I cannot accept it…it seems impossible…" she whispers.

"What?"

"The man whom I am now obliged to suspect, Ralph: he has been in our household for the entirety of our six years' residence. I have trusted him with everything. It cannot be true that he would betray my trust so…"

"You think it to be…"

"Hush." She interrupts, "I would not speak of this to any but her Majesty at this time."

Hackney nods. He realises why she has not spoken the name aloud. As long as Seton remains convinced that he is unsuspected, he shall not flee.

"I shall conceal myself again." He advises, quietly, "Summon Seton and advise him that the boys gave you nothing of use, and that you still suspect Makepeace. Escort him away, and I shall leave separately. Once we are sure that he is unaware, I shall have him arrested, and we can question him."

Anne nods, "That was my thought also. Quick: hide. I shall guide him away."

It is hard to grasp that door handle, harder still to turn it and look out. Seton is still at the end of the passage, now talking to one of the gamekeepers. Is he doing so innocently, or because he knows of her discovery and wishes to give the impression that he does not?

He looks round as she approaches, "Ah, your Grace; forgive me, I was engrossed in discussion of pheasant hatchlings, is all done?" He turns to dismiss the gamekeeper, who departs.

"It is, Mr Seton." Anne says, with an expression of disappointment, "I fear that it was of little use. I know no more than I did this morning - and I am beginning to wonder if young Makepeace was indeed the culprit."

"That is most unfortunate, your Grace. If it please you, I can send for men to seek him?"

"I shall speak to her Majesty first, Mr Seton. We must be discreet, after all. Once that is done, we can dispatch men to arrest him."

"Shall we summon the boys to return to the kitchens?"

She nods, "It is best to let them know that they are not under suspicion." She would rather return to Elizabeth to convey her suspicions, but best to ensure that Seton does not realise they exist.

The sunshine is still bright as they exit the main house and cross the gardens of the inner ward, and Anne is careful to maintain her façade of innocence as they go, "I fear that - in spite of all his talent - I shall be obliged to dismiss Mr Trench. While I have learned nothing of use in relation to yesternight's incident, I have instead learned that he has treated those beneath him with great cruelty. I think I could never sup again upon one of his dishes knowing the misery that was inflicted upon those obliged to work upon it."

"That is most unfortunate, your Grace," Seton agrees, "we were fortunate to have his talent, though if it came to us with commensurate unpleasantness to those of lesser rank, then it is perhaps best dispensed with."

They exit the gatehouse together, but as they approach the mill, Seton hastily grasps Anne's arm, "Enough of the pleasantries, Madame. This way."

"I beg your pardon?" Even though she can guess at what he is doing, Anne is still startled at the move.

There are no staff within the mill, only the grinding stones working away in answer to the pressure of the water wheel without. More than sufficient to conceal any sounds that they might make. He slams the door shut and shoots the bolt home.

"Do you think me a fool?" Seton hisses, pulling Anne close to him, "I knew better than to keep away from that door as you spoke to the scullions, and it was a simple matter to ensure that I was away from it when it was opened; I heard what that boy said - that he saw me lingering over that damned turbot; damn that boy Makepeace! Had he not said _Queen_ Elizabeth, then she would have dined upon it - and now we would be free of the little bitch!"

"So it _was_ you!" in spite of her fear at her plight, Anne attempts to force herself away from him, "Let me free, damn you! I _trusted _you! Above all! You have served us these six years past! Why have you done this?"

"Six years under the service of the Boleyn whore - six long _years _of bowing and scraping to the witch that destroyed England's true queen! The _harlot_ that destroyed the hopes and rightful reign of Queen Mary! The unlawful usurpation of the spawn of a concubine - all that waiting, and all overthrown by the stupidity of a boy!" His eyes vicious, Seton pushes Anne up against the wall of the mill, "You compare me to that monstrous creature Cromwell; do you think I did not know of your sentimental foolishness over my sharing his name? But for all my loathing of that snake from the deepest pit of perdition, I knew - as he did - that I had to serve contrary to my principles if needed - and play the long game if I was to achieve my aim. I _shall_ bring the rightful rule of England back to its proper place - and there is still one who can rule us and restore all. They were _all_ meant to eat that fish! That vile creature, her foreign husband and their tainted spawn! Then none would stand in the way of the only true remaining Tudor! The one with no filthy common blood in her veins!"

"God above!" Astounded, Anne stares at him, "You would plunge all of England into ruin for the Scots Queen? Does she know of this? Would she reward you for your treachery?"

"In time, I have no doubt of it - not that I care for reward; the death of an aberration shall be my payment!" Seton wrenches her away from the wall and begins to pull her up the narrow stairs in his wake, "But, as the only witness to this discovery, I fear there is little option but to ensure your permanent silence. _Such _a pity that her Grace entered the mill in search of the millers, but instead, lost her footing and fell into the mechanism of the water wheel."

"No! Let me free, you filthy traitor!" Anne pulls back, furiously, but his grip is too strong, and she is obliged to climb behind him, "I will _not_ let you do this!"

"You cannot stop me! God help me, I have longed for it!"

They are at the top of the mill now, and he pushes her forth, sending her to sprawl upon the wooden floorboards. Just beyond her is the hatch through which bags of wheat are raised to be poured down into the channels of the millstones. They are far too narrow to accommodate a body, of course; but not the gears of the water wheel. All that would be needed would be to step on the boards of the cover in just the wrong place…

Her legs are tangled in her petticoats, and she cannot get up. God's wounds, she would fight him now! Fight him with fists, feet and teeth if she could. Instead, however, he snatches at the ties of her bodice to pull her up against a support pillar, then grasps a discarded rope to bind her to it, "Oh no, you witch: you shall not try to attack me like a guttersnipe! None are here to aid you, and none shall know what was done to you before the wheel mangles your body into nothing!" He draws his poniard, "And none shall hear your screams as that countenance dissolves into blood."

Smiling horribly, he approaches her, the blade extended. No escape, no rescue…

Forcing herself to remain calm, Anne shuts her eyes, and waits for the end.


	12. Trust Restored

CHAPTER TWELVE

_Trust Restored_

Sir Robert Dudley shuffles very awkwardly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. He would have given anything for this once - a private audience with his Queen - but now he would rather be anywhere other than where he is. Worse, he has been required to bring his wife, who stands alongside him and looks disappointed.

"I am sorry, your Majesty." He whispers, shamefully, "I did not wish for my foolishness to end as it has. I beg you to believe me when I say that I harboured no intentions to wrest you from your marriage or attempt to usurp his Majesty. I have been a damnable _fool_…"

Elizabeth watches him, a little coldly. While she had intended for her mother to be present, it seems that Dudley has taken the initiative, and has come accompanied instead by his wife.

"I am assured of that, Sir Robert; but I am most displeased with your behaviour. I have no doubt that you are a man of integrity and intelligence, albeit tempered by impetuosity. Were it not for the honest and faithful service of your family, and the damage that censure would visit upon _their_ good name, I would require you to depart from this place at once. Rest assured that your continued presence in my Court is to protect their reputations, not yours."

His eyes widen, "Majesty - please, if it is better for all that I depart, then I shall do so and without complaint; for all my impetuosity, I should rather drive my poniard into my heart than bring misfortune upon my father. Believe me, I could not abide to live with such shame. I could not."

He is sincere: she can see it. There is a glassiness in his eyes that suggests tears that were not present before, and those flaming cheeks have whitened. If nothing else has reached through his hubris, the reality of destroying his family's reputations along with his own has pierced it to the marrow. For a moment, she remains cold, as though his words shall have no effect; but then she softens.

"Sir Robert, be assured that I do not demand such an act upon your part. The Dudley family has served me loyally and well from the first, and I should prefer it if that service can continue with you. You share the intelligence of your brothers, if not the patience and governance; but such restraint can be learned. I expect you to learn it and become the Courtier that I have no doubt that you could truly be.

"With that outcome in mind, the hitherto lost miniature shall be fortuitously 'discovered' amidst linens brought from Ightham, but not required to be used here, and there shall be an end to it." She does not add that it would be better to do that than to stir up a scandal to greater proportions than that already bubbling in the corridors.

Dudley drops to one knee, "I swear to you, Majesty, that I shall temper my foolishness, and learn from the examples of my brothers. I warrant that my behaviour has brought you problems and difficulties that are shameful in a Courtier, and I shall endeavour to regain the trust that I have so foolishly squandered."

Finally, Elizabeth smiles, "Then we shall not speak of this again, and instead look to the future." she looks up at Lady Dudley, "It would grieve me greatly to lose your friendship, Amy. I trust that you shall remain in my service."

"I shall, Majesty." Lady Dudley curtseys impeccably, "We have spoken at length of the estrangement that grew between us, and I am sure that we shall regain common ground in our marriage."

Elizabeth is about to answer, but instead looks up as Hackney is shown into the chamber, "My Lord?"

Hackney bows, but then looks about in confusion, "Is her Grace not here?"

Her smile becomes a frown, "Should she be, my Lord?"

"Indeed - for we think we have uncovered the truth of the poisoned fish. She was most dismayed over it, for it concerned a servant we thought to be faithful. I was hidden in the chamber, and waited awhile for her to depart so that none would know that I had been there. She was not in the passageway, so I presumed that she had come to you."

Elizabeth's eyes widen, "She has not come."

"Then where can she be? She…" Hackney pauses, "She agreed to distract the servant concerned to ensure my escape from the chamber without his knowing…"

"But if he did know? Could he have overheard that he was suspected?"

"We thought not, but…" Hackney's voice trails off in dismay.

"Sir Robert," Elizabeth's expression is one of fear, and resolve, "You have sworn to me that you shall endeavour to regain my trust - and now I ask you to do so. Find my mother, ensure her safety and apprehend this miscreant. Do this, and you shall be handsomely rewarded, I assure you."

Dudley bows hastily, "The only reward I desire, Majesty, is your restored good opinion of me. Who is this criminal?"

"Mr Seton, their Grace's steward."

"Then I shall commence the search. Gather men of the Queen's guard, and fetch his Grace of Kent. Is there any suggestion as to where they might have gone?"

Hackney thinks hard, I cannot be certain, but it is likely that her Grace would have led him away from the house - perhaps to the bowling green where the boys were sent. I cannot, however, be certain of it."

"It is a start. Quickly! Let us to it." Dudley turns to Elizabeth, "Majesty, I give you my word that I shall do my all to end this favourably."

"I have no doubt of it - go!" Elizabeth is gripping the arms of her chair tensely, the clearest signal that she wishes to follow, but cannot.

Bowing hastily, Dudley turns and flees.

* * *

Dudley stops only at his quarters, to take up his rapier and a poniard. Had he access to a pistol, he would grasp it; but he lacks such a weapon, so blades shall have to do.

It is as he emerges that he sees Leighs before him, "My Lord, if you wish to continue our discussion, then I shall grant you that satisfaction anon, but my mission is now for the Queen."

"Mission?" Leighs asks, bemused.

"Come with me," Dudley urges, suddenly, reaching out to grasp Leighs's arm, "I am not the one who poisoned his Grace of Richmond, but we go in search of the one who did - and he almost certainly has her Grace of Kent in his toils. Let us bring this to an end together."

"Her Grace is taken?"

"It is likely." Dudley notices the blade at Leighs's waist, presumably worn for the purposes of a duel or something equally foolish, "You are already armed; there is no need for us to delay."

Rather than argue, Leighs nods, "Then lead on, Sir Robert, let us find this miscreant. Do we know where he has gone?"

"At this time, no. Hackney is of the view that they exited the house with the intention of attending the bowling green. If they are there, then we may stand down with relief and permit the Queen's Guard to apprehend him. But if not…"

The pair hasten from the house and cross the gardens of the island ward. Leighs pauses to look across to the bowling green, "I cannot see them. Only a gaggle of boys."

"He would not have time to take her across the parkland, not without meeting one of the gamekeepers, I am sure of it." Dudley observes, "They must be within walls somewhere; but where nearby?"

"Surely not the gatehouse - for there are few rooms within that are untenanted. The stables, perhaps? If he is able to get her aboard a horse, then he shall be clear away, and with a hostage for whom he can bargain his freedom."

The pair enter the gatehouse to find no one in sight, "Damnation - where are the guards?" Leighs looks about, furiously, "Why are they not present?"

"This is not a castle to be defended, my friend," Dudley reminds him, "Why would they protect a gatehouse from those leaving? None are approaching, and thus they are within." Hastily, he opens a door and looks in to find a lively game of cards in progress. Startled, the men look back at him, and the Captain rises to his feet, "Sir?"

"How long have you been within this chamber?"

"No more than twenty minutes, I think; I was obliged to speak to a tradesman, but no others have approached since then."

"Is no one on watch?"

"There is no need for that - their Graces do not expect visitors while the Court is in residence. The guards at the Estate Lodges perform that function."

Rather than berate the men, he instead stirs them to action, "Her Grace of Kent has been abducted - redeem yourself for your failure to protect her by aiding us in our search!"

Immediately they are on their feet, the card table tumbling over and scattering cards left and right as they scramble for weapons. It is only as they emerge that a movement catches Dudley's eye, and he sees a man in a smock struggling with the door to the mill.

"Ho there, what is amiss?"

"Forgive me my Lord; but I cannot open the door - it is not locked, but I think it to be bolted from the inside. It will not give."

Dudley and Leighs exchange a glance, "I cannot see how it could be anyone else." Leighs agrees.

"Is it likely that battering the door would be overheard?" Dudley questions the miller.

"Possibly - the noise of the millstones is loud, but whether it would be sufficient to conceal the sound of a breaking door, I cannot say."

"If he is in there, with her Grace," Leighs whispers, "the noise of our entry shall alert him, and she shall be dead before we reach the stairs. We must be more careful than that."

Easing the miller aside, he looks the door up and down, "This door is in a poor state of repair, I note." He smiles as he does so, "There are far too many openings between the boards."

He leans close, and squints into a gap between two of the boards of the door, "There."

"What?" Dudley whispers, leaning in to join him.

Leighs turns back to the miller, "Have you some wire about your person?"

He nods, "Not much, but some." Fumbling in his scrip, he pulls out a short length of iron wire, "I needed some to repair a hinge two days back."

Leighs bends the wire into an angled hook, "A thread, someone."

Wordlessly, Dudley pulls at the ties of his sleeve and releases a thin cord, "Will this do?"

"No promises, I am extemporising." Leighs admits, "But if this works, be ready."

They watch as he carefully threads the hook through the gap in the boards, fumbles, curses a bit, and finally nods, "Wish me luck. If the bolt is stiff, then we shall have to think again."

It is a dreadfully contrived apparatus, as Leighs uses the cord to pull the end of the wire back through the gap, then wiggles it carefully.

"It is loose - thank God." He whispers, "A moment…"

They all see when it comes free, as the door shifts inwards, "Go, Robert." Leighs hisses, "I shall be at your back."

His eyes set, Dudley nods, and makes for the stairs.

* * *

Seton regards Anne as she sits, silent and calm. She cannot escape, nor can she fight him, and nothing will permit her to satisfy his hatred with a scream.

He is horribly close to her now, the point of the poniard at her cheek, "Answer me this, whore. How is it that you bewitched him? What is it that you have in you that called him from his faith, and his wife?"

She opens her eyes again, and glares at him, "If you have to ask, then you cannot possibly understand the answer." He could never know the base, selfish impulses that drove Henry to hunt her as his prey, to possess her, to expect a son from her womb and then - at the last - to desire to be rid of her. Of course he cannot appreciate that _Henry_ was the one who chased, _Henry_ was the one who desired, _Henry_ was the one who demanded. Dear Jane Wiltshire had said it, and so had her sister: _We are always to blame_.

"It is of no matter. Once her Majesty of Scots - the last _true_ Tudor - rules England, then I shall be content. The aberration that extruded from your womb shall be gone, and I shall be free from my despised servitude to you."

"If you despised me so much, what possessed you to stay?" Anne asks. She can guess, but it would be interesting to know if she is right.

"Sooner or later she would have come here; and, once she did, I would be able to act. It was hard to feign loyalty and service - but I swallowed my pride and did what I did to ensure that none would suspect me."

"But you were careless." Anne reminds him, "You allowed yourself to be seen."

"It is of no matter - for none but you know of that."

"None?" she asks archly, "Can you be sure of that?"

His expression changes, "You were alone with them. None were there but you, so who could know?"

"There is one." She smiles at him, coldly, "One who is aware that you are the traitor. Even if I miscarry, you shall be hunted down like a dog and dragged to the noose."

Seton pauses, his eyes flitting left and right nervously has he considers this unexpected outcome, but not for long, "Not with you to purchase my freedom." he snaps, stabbing the poniard downwards to cut the dusty ropes that have bound her, "We go. Now. You will secure horses for us and I shall free you once I am aboard a ship for France. That is the one hope your spawn has for your survival: my freedom."

Pulling Anne to her feet, he turns, and stops. Footsteps, on the stairs…

"Stop where you are!" he calls, "I have the point of my blade at her throat!"

Moving slowly, deliberately, Sir Robert Dudley emerges on the staircase, and sees that Seton has indeed carried out his threat, "I shall come no further. Stay your blade."

"Get back! If you do not, then she shall bleed out her life before you! I demand horses and free passage to Dover!"

"It is too late, Mr Seton." Anne says, as though heedless of the blade-point at her throat, "You are discovered. Even if you carry out your threat, there shall be no escape now. All that is left for you is the noose."

"Then she shall know what it is to mourn one who has died, and I shall be celebrated as a martyr!" Seton cries, enraged, "I shall be absolved for the act, for you are a godless whore, and his Holiness has decreed it!"

He does not use the blade, but instead begins to pull her back to the wall, where the hatch awaits. Below are the churning waters of the leat, and the gears of the water wheel…

He is glancing behind, now and again, and as he does so, his grip loosens just a little before he retakes it. It is her one chance - and as soon as he looks back the next time, his concentration to his rear, Anne wrenches herself forward and pulls free of his grasp. She sees Dudley hastening towards her, and reaches for his hand as Seton grasps at her skirts, "Damn you! Damn you for a whore!"

"I have you, your Grace." Dudley pulls her away, and she turns her head back; just in time to see her captor lose his balance, and step back onto the hatch…

"No!" she cannot stop the scream as the wood gives way beneath him. He still has handfuls of her heavy skirts, and suddenly she, too, is being pulled backwards as he grunts in horror and clutches ever tighter. In an instant, she is the rope between two tugging men, as Dudley clings to her hands, and then Lord Leighs emerges alongside and grasps her arm to aid his fellow rescuer, "We have you, your Grace! Hold fast!"

It seems as though they might stay that way forever. Neither Dudley nor Leighs desire to lose the man whose very life now depends upon his hold upon Anne's skirts - not when he can be tried for the traitor that he is; but for either of them to release her could send her backwards to follow Seton through that hatch, and there is no space for the first of the guards who has now also arrived at the top of the stairs to pass them.

"Take her arm!" Leighs calls to the guard, "I shall fetch him back!"

It is as they are switching places that the stitching and lacing of Anne's skirts decide the matter for them, the threads rending and ripping as they give way under the strain, sending Seton down into the very maelstrom that he had intended for her. Quickly, Dudley pulls her forth and keeps her from looking, but he cannot drown out the horrible, agonised shriek that the errant Chamberlain lets out as he falls through that hatch, plunging into the gears below.

"You are safe, your Grace." He says as she breathes fast, in shock. For a moment, she fears her composure might break, but instead she calms herself, and turns back to the hatch. "Thank you, Sir Robert - I am grateful for your aid." Carefully she steps to the edge, and stops, "I am grieved that he could not receive the Queen's justice." Even as she does so, Dudley is hastily removing his short cloak to offer as a replacement for the skirt that has also gone through the hatch, leaving Anne's voluminous petticoats on open display.

"He will receive God's your Grace. There is no court higher." Leighs advises quietly from nearby, "I, too, have reason to hope for that."

They turn at the thumps of footsteps thundering on the stairs, and William rushes to her, "Anne! My God, what did he do?"

"Fear not, my William; for I am quite well." She advises him, calmly, before her lip trembles, and she crumples into his arms to weep.

"I shall supervise the retrieval of his remains, your Grace." Dudley advises, as William comforts his wife, "She was most courageous - I could not have reached her, so instead she fought her way free from him. He fell through…that." He points at the hatch.

"Ah." William sighs, and nods, "Then it shall not be pleasant. Fetch one of the gamekeepers to aid you. They are used to such sights from their slaughterings of vermin."

"I shall assist." Leighs adds, ushering the miller and the guards to leave the Kents in peace.

It does not take Anne long to regain her composure, and she looks up at her husband, "Forgive my foolishness, my beloved. I was shaken by what happened - but I am not hurt. Merely bereft of a favourite skirt."

"I give thanks for that, my Anne. Come; let us return to the House - you must replace your skirt and her Majesty must be advised of this." Gently, he guides her to the stairs, and the chamber is silent again, but for the grinding of the millstones.

* * *

It takes some time to retrieve the horribly mangled corpse from the leat. His expression grim, the gamekeeper turns to Dudley, "Looks like it took some time for 'im to die, m'Lord."

"Forgive me if I show no contrition over such tidings." Dudley observes, "He attempted to visit that fate upon your Mistress."

"Then God rot 'im, m'Lord." Disgusted, the gamekeeper spits upon the ground and crosses himself, "If it please yer, I'll get two of my boys to dig a grave for 'im. No murderer deserves the consolation of a priest."

"I would suggest that the grave be dug, sir." Dudley sighs, "But not the burial at this time. It is for the Queen's Majesty to decide whether he be granted the service of a cleric, or as close to it as can be given to a passed soul."

"I ask for God's mercy in that it is my wish that he be buried unshriven," Leighs admits, quietly, "He near-on brought my father to his death. I thought I should welcome that outcome, but to see him in such distress…" he shudders, and swallows down an obvious lump in his throat.

"And I ask your forgiveness for my angry words when we argued, my Lord." Dudley says, quietly, "Your words were spoken in haste, and distress - and my response was uncalled for."

"Nay, my friend." Leighs turns to him, "It is my words that were wrong. Regardless of anger or otherwise. We both showed the worst of ourselves in that moment, and I am most grieved that I spoke as I did. Truly, I am sorry for those words."

"As am I for mine. If you shall forgive me, then I shall most assuredly offer you the same."

"Then, know that I do." Leighs holds out his hand, and Dudley shakes it.

"I think, once, we agreed that we would step forth in place of our fathers to lead the council. This time, however, I say that we do so as their heirs and with their knowledge and experience committed to our hearts. God knows I have been an impulsive fool, and I am grateful to have been granted the opportunity to atone for it." He smiles, "Go, my friend - your father shall be grateful for your presence as he recovers. He shall also be pleased to know that the perpetrator of the crime is known, and punished."

With little to do now that the corpse has been recovered and wrapped in sheets to conceal the damage, Dudley turns to go back to the house. As he makes his way between the parterre beds of the inner ward gardens, he can see a woman awaiting him; and, for the first time in as long as he can remember, he smiles, "Amy."

"My Robin - are you harmed? I am told there was violence!" She is reaching out to him and, rather than demur, he enfolds her in his arms.

"Forgive me, my poor dear wife. " He says, softly, "I have been a fool for too long. Please believe me when I say that I have not fallen out of love with you - I have not. I resented our marriage for foolish reasons of spite, and you bore the weight of it. Then, when I was pressed by others, you spoke for me, and rebuked me for my pointless anger. If I had forgotten our love, it was at that moment that I knew it was merely misplaced. Come, let us attend upon her Majesty and advise her that all is well."

Lady Dudley does not respond, but instead presses into his embrace. Relieved at his reprieve from the consequences of his childishness, he guides her into the house.

* * *

"Please, my dear daughter, I beg you to cease fretting, I am quite well." Anne's voice is insistent in the face of sherbets, liqueurs and goodness-knows-what-else that Elizabeth is keen to press upon her to ease her 'shock'.

"God's wounds!" the Queen's legendary temper is upon open display as she paces to and fro beside a window in the hall, "Were he not already a mangled wreck, I should see to it that he _became_ one! Threats to my life are hardly new and I shall face them as I have always done - but to threaten my mother? Who is innocent of all things pertaining to my rule? God damn him for a slithering jackanapes!"

"Easy, Lizzie," Philip soothes her, "As her Grace has said, she is quite well. A little bruised perhaps, and in need of a replacement for a lost skirt, but otherwise unharmed. Seton has met his punishment in the grinding of the wheel gears. From what I understand, it was not a quick or easy death."

"Easier than disembowelment!" Elizabeth snaps.

"Probably not, Majesty." Hackney advises, quietly, "But nonetheless, it is done. Our only decision now is whether or not to grant him burial in consecrated ground."

"He has committed a mortal sin. Let him lie in the ground without a priest." Elizabeth says, coldly, "That he intended to throw Mama into the very trap that claimed him has killed all hope of mercy that I could grant him. Let that be all that happens. I will not have his deed known outside the walls of this estate."

"Majesty?" Hackney looks bemused.

"His motive was not entirely religious, Ralph." Anne advises from her chair, "It seems that he was determined to remove Elizabeth and the princes, and replace them with the Queen of Scots - whether she wished it or no. He referred to her as the only remaining _true_ Tudor."

"The treaties between our nations preclude such a thing." Elizabeth muses, "I think it unlikely that she even knew of this. Therefore it shall not be spoken of again - none shall know of it other than we. The boy who died shall be given a decent, Christian burial at my expense, and then there shall be an end to it."

"I do ask one thing, my Elizabeth." Anne says, suddenly.

"Whatever you wish, Mama." Elizabeth hastens to her side, "I shall grant it."

"Is there perchance a cook in the royal household of equal calibre to Mr Trench? After my investigation of his rule over the Kitchens, I wish to relieve him of his duties."

After nearly a half hour of angry temper, Elizabeth laughs, "I shall see to it - I have many cooks, and I am sure that at least one of them shall welcome the promotion to oversee a kitchen."

* * *

It is, perhaps, inevitable that tidings of the afternoon's events have spread all over the estate, and the Queen has decreed that none shall speak of it to any beyond the boundaries of the Kent Lands, "I will not have it sounded about that any sought my death while within these walls!" she declares to an assembly of both guests and staff in the hall of the main house, "Know that I trust you, each man and woman, to protect my name against those who might slander me." She continues in a gentler tone, "I remain grateful to you all for your love and care. Let us set this incident aside, and return to the pleasure of this summer's kindness."

She smiles as the gathering bow, or curtsey, to her; and someone suddenly shouts, "God Save our gracious Queen Elizabeth!" which sets the staff to cheering. The higher placed guests in front exchange smiling glances, and break into polite applause.

"Are you quite sure that you are recovered, Mama?" Elizabeth asks, as the crowd departs. Linking arms with her mother, she steps down from the dais and makes her way to the door that leads through to the gloriette passage, "I could not have borne it to have lost you in such a fashion as that man had intended."

"As his Majesty advised, I am naught but a little bruised, my Elizabeth," Anne assures her, gently, "the horror of the event is past, and I was able to look to my dear William for comfort when that was needed."

"Has the…corpse…been interred now?"

Anne nods, "Lord Leighs oversaw the procedure, and sent a messenger to advise that the remains were placed in a deep grave in a clearing a mile from the house in a part of the park that is reserved for the rearing of pheasants. The grave shall not be marked, nor shall we have any reason to approach."

As they emerge into the hall, Elizabeth changes the subject, "I have sent to London for recommendations for a new cook, Mama. The kitchen boys shall be obliged to endure Mr Trench's temper for a few more weeks, I fear; but his replacement shall be found in due time, and they shall be free of him."

"Thank you, Elizabeth; I am most dismayed that I did not see his cruelties to those who could not offer defence or retort to his behaviour. I thought myself to have managed the household better than that. At least I know now, and perhaps we shall find ourselves required to seek out new scullions less frequently in future. Once I have secured a new Chamberlain, I shall ask him to send to young Makepeace and ask if he might consent to return if a kinder master is installed in the Kitchens."

The queen smiles, then sighs, "I wish that all of the realm's matters of concern could be resolved so easily."

"Perhaps, my dearest," Anne agrees, "But we are gathered as your Council, and we shall take such cares upon ourselves for the remaining weeks of your residence. There are still entertainments to enjoy, and time for hunting. In spite of this vile incident, I am hopeful that you have been happy under my roof."

"Oh, yes indeed, Mama!" Elizabeth squeezes her arm, "_Most_ Happy!"

"Ah, my old motto."

"I think it appropriate."

"In these circumstances?" Anne smiles, "I heartily agree."

* * *

Richmond still lacks the strength to walk too far, and thus has been brought to the clearing in a carrying chair. Beside him, Leighs dismisses the bearers, who gather at the treeline, talking amongst themselves.

"There." Leighs indicates the turned over earth, "Once the ground has settled over him, and the grass has regrown, none shall know he is here."

"I find it hard to fathom that he could have planned to wait here until the Queen came on progress." Richmond observes, "What if she had not done so? All that servitude wasted."

"She would have come, though; would she not, Father? It was - I'll warrant - a clever plan."

"At least the dish was misplaced. I should rather not have endured the poisoning, yes; but better that it was I than her Majesty."

"I do not agree with the entirety of that statement, Father." Leighs turns and crouches alongside Richmond, "I beg your forgiveness of my stupidity and greed. In the moment that I saw your distress, I felt only the fear of a child seeing the loss of a beloved parent, and I knew that I could not let you go. I would give up all of that inheritance to keep you a little longer."

"Ah, that you shall." Richmond smiles at him, "For I am not inclined to go just yet. That moment of fear when I thought myself shortly to meet my maker awoke me from my grim mood, and I knew that I no more wished to die than you desired me to. I am grateful that God has granted me more time upon this earth, both to serve England, and to pass on my knowledge and experience of governance. I am sure that the Realm shall be glad to have you upon the council when my time is done."

He rests his hand upon his son's head, and smiles almost tearfully. For all the misery of his poisoning, to have overcome that awful estrangement with his son is more than he could have hoped for. He looks across at the pile of earth that shall soon vanish away, "Know that I forgive your act against me, Thomas Seton." He says, quietly, "Even though it was not your intent. I have gained as you have lost, and I do not have it in my heart to hate you for such a gift. I shall go in peace, and offer up prayers for your soul as it labours far from God."

Leighs looks up at him, startled.

"Another granted me forgiveness for my duplicity against him." Richmond says, quietly, "I would be most churlish to refuse that same courtesy. Come, I have seen enough of this place. Let us return to Lisbet and the boys."

Leighs rises and smiles to him, then turns to summon the bearers to carry Richmond back to the house.

* * *

Anne is grateful that her soon-to-be-dismissed cook is unaware of the pending removal: otherwise, God alone knows what might have been set before them this evening.

The Court is gathered for a fine supper of all manner of game, great sides of beef and the finest manchet bread. Bowls are heaped with steaming baked onions in thyme, decorated with marigolds, while stews of boar in sage hide within great paste coffins.

While he has little appetite, and instead sups from a dish of bone broth, Richmond has returned to the table, and is seated to the left of the Queen, while his family are at the nearer end of the benches to the dais. The Dudleys are also seated in close proximity, though Northumberland himself is at the high table.

The noise of conversation around the hall is such that it is hard to hear the musicians in the gallery above; but they shall come into their own once the meal is voided, and she is quite convinced that they use this time more to rehearse than to perform.

She picks at her portion of venison, her appetite almost as dulled as Richmond's. She has already decided to appoint Seton's assistant, a capable Kentishman by the name of James Camburn, to the vacant Stewardship; but nonetheless the pain of Seton's betrayal stings hard. Perhaps she appointed him more for his name than his skill? His qualification being the name Thomas, rather than anything else…

No - no, even as she racks her memory for indications that her Steward had served her duplicitously, she cannot find any. He served her faithfully - just as that other Thomas had done - and yet, unlike that other Thomas, his motives had been as well concealed as they had been determined to cause harm. She cannot think of any incident that gave her cause for alarm: he had deceived her easily and completely.

For a moment she is ashamed of herself for being so gulled - but how can one know that one is deceived if the deceiver is so accomplished? In all of her years as Regent, she was determined that no act upon her part would visit itself upon her daughter in the years to come - and yet, in all innocence, she has managed to do exactly that.

_You are not to blame_, she tells herself, crossly, _he gave no sign that he hated her, no sign that he hated you. He was patient, and determined - and one cannot be prepared for an act against oneself if the foundations are laid so long before it._

He would have said that. Her old friend Tom: the Tom she had learned that she could trust. Suddenly she smiles: how often did their thoughts run in tune with one another? Far more than they diverged. Forget that latter Thomas, and remember instead a better one, who had served her all his days.

Her appetite suddenly renewed, Anne reaches for a piece of bread and dips it into the gravy.

* * *

The banquet course is served out in the parterre garden, as there is still more than enough light to see. The blooms are closing, but their fragrance still scents the air as people move between tables sampling sweetmeats and fancies, washed down with hippocras and accompanied by conversation of varying degrees of interest.

"Are you overtired, my friend?" Anne sits down alongside Richmond, who has been drowsing somewhat, "Perhaps some marchpane?"

"Ah, forgive me, my Lady Anne." He smiles back, "I am regaining my strength, yes; but nonetheless, I tire easily at this time. A few more days, and I think I shall be restored to what little worth my aged body will permit. I shall, perforce, continue to rely upon my rather more sprightly mind to serve her Majesty."

She takes his hand, "I am most glad that you are recovering. I should have been most distraught to have lost you."

"It was worth it, my Lady." He answers, squeezing hers back, "For it has brought my son back to me. For as long as God grants me life, I shall ensure that he is well taught to serve her Majesty. I hope that he shall then enter the Council and carry on my legacy - as a better man than I might have been. In the meantime, I shall continue my preparations for my next life."

"Preparations?" Anne's eyebrow arches.

"Indeed - am I not a godless Papist?" he smiles at her, "I wish to crown the good works of my latter years with the creation of almshouses and a grammar school."

"Whether one is convinced of salvation through good works, or by faith alone, such acts are hardly to be criticised, my dear Richard; I think your plans to be most worthy. Is it not right that those of us who are blessed with wealth should share our good fortune with those of lesser estate?"

She smiles, and kisses him upon the cheek, "If you are well enough to walk, I shall escort you into the house; perhaps a few hands of cards while the youngsters dance shall appeal?"

"They shall indeed, my Lady." He smiles back.

The aromas of the voided feast still scent the hall as the assembly return. The trestles have been removed, and the musicians have tuned. All that is required now is for the dancing to begin, and all look to her Majesty.

"A pavane, I think, Mr Timms!" Elizabeth calls to the music master, "Let us begin gently, while our stomachs settle from the magnificence of our supper!"

Anne escorts Richmond to a card table, and smiles as William approaches, Northumberland in tow, "Primero, Gentlemen?"

From her seat, Anne concentrates mostly upon her cards, but also watches her daughter as she dances joyfully with her husband. Dressed in one of her finest gowns, a kirtle of russet red embroidered with gold thread and appliqué heraldic beasts with an overgown of her favourite emerald green. Her hair is teased into a riot of curls atop her head from which a few ringlets fall, teasingly, about her neck. Jesu, she is a beauty; even if some despise her, there are many, many more in England who love her…

"Anne," William interrupts, smiling, "It is your turn."

She shakes herself, "Forgive me, Gentlemen. I was distracted by a glittering emerald upon the dance floor."

After a few gentle dances, Elizabeth is keen to increase the pace, and requests the first galliard. One of her favourite dances, she loves to watch Philip kick his shapely legs as they turn. Nearby, Dudley is with his wife, laughing with Lord Leighs as he fumbles with a loose button upon his doublet, obliging his own wife to aid him.

"Are you happy, my beloved?" Philip asks, rather pointlessly, as he can see that she is.

"Did you need to ask, Filipe?" She laughs, "The threat to my mother is gone, and I, too am free of it. The weather looks set fair, and there are still weeks of pleasure to come." She curtseys as he bows, and leads her into the dance.


	13. Time to Go Home

**A/N:** And, as the old saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Sorry I've been so rubbish at responding to comments; I'm really not very good at that! Thank you so much for reading, and commenting, and favouriting; I'm really pleased that people have enjoyed this sequel. Before Elizabeth returns home, however, there are a few fun things to do!

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Time to go Home_

The sky is a clear, deep blue; but the heat is mitigated by a fresh breeze that shivers in the leaves of the beeches as the horses thunder below, following the hounds in search of a stag.

As is often the case, Elizabeth is at the front of the pack, her joy in the hunt absolute. As always, Philip is alongside her, his expertise aboard a horse as great as hers. Anne is not far behind, her riding ability more than sufficient to keep up, but for the slightly slower pace of her gelding.

She hears Elizabeth laugh joyfully, for it is here, upon horseback, that a woman can show her prowess to be the equal of a man - even in a heavy habit and riding side-saddle. It is not mere courtesy that keeps the male courtiers in her wake.

There is a slight shift in the cries of the hounds, and soon a great stag bounds from a patch of cover, and the chase is on. For near-on a half-hour, the hunt races across the park, as the stag is young, and fast for all his size. It is only as the great beast flees into a copse and is unable to break through the thick ground cover that the hounds reach it, and all of the horses are well winded as Philip steps down from his gelding to take a crossbow and make the kill.

"The meat shall serve well for your farewell feast, Majesty." William observes as the gamekeepers start work upon removing the fallen stag to the game cellars for skinning, "I believe Mr Straker shall find the liver an excellent opportunity to display his culinary creativity for this evening's supper."

Three weeks have passed since Seton's death, and Anne was given the pleasure of dismissing Mr Trench two days ago, citing his cruelties to the scullions as the pretext for his removal. David Straker arrived a few hours later, and quickly proved his worth with the supper that was served that same evening. Having learned his craft in the intimacy of Elizabeth's privy kitchen, he is well aware of the requirements upon a Royal cook, and welcomed the opportunity to run a kitchen himself.

A group of servers are approaching, accompanied by a bullock cart carrying pails of water for the horses, while a second cart is laden with barrels of ale and wine for the riders. As a stag cannot be asked to lead them to a suitable place to dine, they must depart from the spot - but first a celebratory drink for the hunters, and a needed watering for the horses is required.

Mr Camburn is with the wine-cart, "Your Graces," he addresses his employers, "I have received word from the players - they have reached the village of Otham, and shall arrive this afternoon."

"Excellent, thank you James." William acknowledge their new Steward, "I presume all is prepared in the house?"

"It is, your Grace," Camburn smiles, the coffers they sent were received yesternight, and all is prepared for them. They shall perform in the gardens this evening while the Queen and Court sample the banquet. If your Graces are ready, the awnings where dinner is to be served are a half-mile from here, and the roasted beef shall be well-turned by now."

"Excellent," William nods as he bows, "I shall assemble the riders and we shall join you anon."

"The awnings are amidst a stand of beeches to the south west, your Grace."

"Thank you."

* * *

Prince Edward submits to the application of a damp cloth to his face, while young Henry is more vigorous in his protests, "I am clean! I do not need another cloth!"

"Of course you are, Highness," Mistress Peake answers, with no sympathy whatsoever, "Your royal mother has commanded that, if you complain and whine, you shall not join your Parents at the feast tonight!"

Not _strictly _true, admittedly; but the boys have not been granted the opportunity to sup with the Court before, and such a treat is one that shall ensure good behaviour if there is a threat that it might be taken away. It has the desired effect, and Hal quietens at once.

Spared from the cares of the Council, neither boy has known anything but games, sports and lessons - to a lesser degree than in London - over the weeks of their stay at Leeds. The Leighs boys have proved to be boon companions, and the days have passed at speed in answer to their joy.

Tonight, however, they are required to behave as grown men, as are all royal children when in public, and their garments are considerably more formal than they have been of late. Edward is dressed in the same emerald green slashed with gold-woven red as is his mother's preference, to complement his Tudor crown of red-gold hair, while Henry is in murrey satin slashed with a rich copper tinsel.

"There." Mistress Peake assesses them, "The very picture of majesty! Come, Highnesses: their Majesties await you."

Elizabeth and Philip are in the Hall, dressed magnificently in matching ivory and gold satin, with their devices picked out in seed pearls, along with a kingfisher each at the breast. Her kirtle is a spectacle of cloth of gold, while a delicate golden diadem crowns her curls. A Goddess and her consort set to appear before their adoring congregation, the boys immediately cease any thought of childish tricks and bow before them, "Mama, Papa."

She breaks into a smile, "My dear boys! You are truly the very model of royalty, and I am proud of you both. Come, we shall sup with the Court - lead on, Highnesses."

A singular honour, then; the Queen is always first. But not today - her boys have played in the background of the Progress, and she wishes now to show them to her Court. They are entirely unaware of the attempt upon their mother's life - Mistress Peake has worked hard to ensure it - and revel in the prominence of their position at the head of her procession.

The garments worn by the Queen and her husband have been well concealed within the coffers and chests that travelled to Kent, and none have seen them before. She smiles inwardly at the gasps, and the deeper bows that such _richesse_ inspires. Such foolery.

She smiles at Anne's expression as she mounts the dais, and turns as she reaches her chair, "Thank you all for your kindness. While we are not yet to depart, I could not keep myself from the desire to express my gratitude outwardly. I ask you to welcome their Highnesses Edward and Henry, for they have proved themselves to be the very model of dutiful sons. It is time, I think, that they sup with us this night."

The boys shuffle with pleased embarrassment at the applause, before taking their seats. In deference to their youth, the Earl of Warwick is seated alongside them rather than one of the older Lords, and Richmond has instead taken a seat with his family.

"Not too much, Highnesses," he warns as the remove is fanfared in, "or you shall not have room for the sweetmeats later on."

Indulgent smiles from all who see their faces light up at the word 'sweetmeats'.

Anne turns to smile at her daughter, and then notices one of the motifs on the gown, "Kingfishers, my Majesty?"

Indeed, for Filipe and I are Halcyon and Ceyx - the perfect lovers of antiquity." She answers, softly, "I am eternally grateful for our love, and the heirs that have been borne of it."

"Most appropriate - though I trust that you have not angered Zeus in private?" Anne chuckles.

Elizabeth reddens somewhat.

The evening is drawing in as the assembled Court make their way out into the gardens, where the banquet course has - once again - been set out. This evening, however, additional chairs and benches have been arranged around the garden, and the musicians are gathering under an awning. Above, in the sky, the faintest sliver of a new moon decorates the heavens, and the evening star is showing nearby. Here and there, flares have been planted in the flowerbeds, awaiting lighting once the light fully fades.

"This is most delightful," Elizabeth says, settling back into a well cushioned chair beneath a canopy in deference to her royal state, "It was becoming uncommonly warm in the hall. I shall be pleased to remain here."

"Then it is as well that your wish is apparently the intention, my love." Philip smiles at her, sitting beside her in a second chair. He turns to see Henry, who is looking rather drowsy, "Come, my prince." He lifts the child onto his lap.

The musicians begin, and then a figure dressed in layers of floating white gauze dashes from a gateway, across the garden, and disappears into the house. A few moments later, a second flees from behind the awning and performs some acrobatic tricks before disappearing to the gateway from which the first had come.

Another, this time in silver tinsel, emerges from the house and crosses the garden in a sequence of acrobatic leaps, while the two in white return and circle around him, before they break into song; a hymn to Athena, celebrating her wisdom and learning, and a fourth figure appears from behind the awning, dressed in flowing robes and carrying a large curled ram's horn, "Hail great Queen! England's own Athena and Eirene! Protectress and Mother of the Realm! Queen of Peace and Tranquillity!"

The figures in gauze approach the speaker, who gives them the horn. Moving together, the three cross to Elizabeth and kneel before her, presenting it to her. Smiling, she takes it and finds it to be filled with sweetmeats wrapped in waxed paper, and fragrant flowers to resemble Eirene's cornucopia.

"Thank you for your gift!" She calls, "Play on!"

At her call, a group of men and boys, dressed in brightly coloured costumes spangled with crystals, emerge from the house and across the gardens, carrying tapers. They move swiftly about the garden, lighting the tapers, before gathering in the centre and taking up another song, this time a hymn of praise to Elizabeth herself, as God's chosen for the Realm, celebrating her reign and the prosperity that it has brought.

There are poems, and small scenes of comical moments that delight the Princes, despite Henry almost being asleep, then more songs and dancing. As night draws in, the light from the flares illuminates the players delightfully, the warm air fragranced by the evening flowers.

Clasping her husband's hand, Anne smiles delightedly. In spite of everything, the Progress has been a great success. The only shadow in that sun is the knowledge that, within the next few days, the first of the baggage wagons are to be packed, to ensure that Knole is ready to accept the royal family when they leave in three weeks' time.

The thought of it brings a lump to her throat, and William sees her expression change, "My love?"

She turns, her eyes a little damp, "Forgive me, my husband; I thought for a moment of her Majesty's impending departure, and was grieved at it."

His grip upon her hand tightens gently, "Nay my Anne, do not think so. In this progress, her Majesty has shown that the journey is easy and practicable. I have no doubt that she shall come again in time. Perhaps we might persuade her to join us at some future Christmastide? Or perhaps instead travel to Court instead?"

"I should like that."

She smiles as he leans down to kiss her hand, and returns her attention to the dance.

* * *

In spite of Anne's insistence that Elizabeth rest from the cares of rule and permit her Council to shoulder the burden for a time, the Queen is unable to be so lax in her duties, and has insisted upon attending this morning's gathering. It is too informal to be considered a 'meeting'.

Northumberland rises to his feet, "It seems that matters in France have settled for a time, Majesty. The Regent remains intent upon her squabbles with her Habsburg enemies, but less intent upon the expenditure required to convert words to conflict. Her religious policies are also a cause of malcontent in many parts of her realm, causing disputes between families that are, in some cases, entirely fabricated in hopes of gaining land."

"That is no surprise to me," Elizabeth sighs, "Faith in God is admirable, but use of it for altogether more earthly sins is abhorrent. I take it that families are accused of heresy in hopes of their property being awarded to the accuser?"

Northumberland nods, "It is not all bad, however. In some regions, families are able to live at peace with one another, and accept each others' faith as is the case in England. Those who accuse do so for entirely more base reasons than protection of the Church."

"I fear that some disputes are rooted in older disputes than that." Richmond adds, "Our own claims to France are based on your Majesty's French ancestry - for once England's Kings were French Kings also. Those who reside in France do not see it so."

"I believe that my father saw it so - and intended to claim France by war." Elizabeth answers, "My Grandfather chose never to make war, and England prospered for it. Therefore I look to _his_ example in my policy. I see no reason to enforce a claim to France. We have a foothold in Calais, and that is all that we require. Let us continue to use it as a trading centre, and seek better relations with our neighbours. While they despise me for a heretic, they do not wish to foment war with us, as we have more than sufficient capital to fund an answer to any such impertinence." She turns to Hackney, "Is there news of our foolish young men from Douai?"

"They continue to attempt to raise your catholic subjects, Majesty; but, to my knowledge, even the catholics chase them from the parishes, for they have no wish to see your rule disturbed in the face of your agreement that they be free to cleave to Rome."

"It is hard to claim oppression when one is not oppressed." Anne muses.

Elizabeth shakes her head, "I am not fool enough to think that my decree has suppressed all dissent, Gentlemen. I think it important that the parishes are visited regularly to ensure that clerics do not speak against tolerance, whether they be of the old faith or the new - and I know full well that those who consider themselves to be the purest of the pure," she pauses, and grimaces, "are the greatest of all hypocrites. I will permit them to embrace the austerity that they love so greatly, but if they opt to impose that upon all about them, I shall be forced to act."

"I think they shall find it as hard to do so as the men from Douai have." Warwick smirks, "They demand that the populace eschew all celebrations, games and sports. They shall find it impossible to quell England's religious festivities without force of the law."

"Which they shall not have while I live." Elizabeth promises, "Life for the poorest of my subjects is harsh - I am not blind to that - and the opportunity for them to find joy in celebration is a gift that I will not take from them."

"In all honesty, Majesty," Northumberland resumes, "There are no matters, religious or otherwise, that look likely to rise up against us while we are here. Let us enjoy the time that is left before our departure for London, and resume our consideration of them then."

"That is an excellent idea, my Lord." Elizabeth smiles, "You are all henceforth dismissed, and I expect you to be at the bowling green before the clock strikes eleven."

Smiling, and a few chuckling, they rise and bow.

* * *

Mr Camborne looks over the last of his notes, "That is the last of the wagons, my Lady; I have compared notes with the Chamberers to ensure that nothing is left behind."

"If it is, then it is of no matter, Mr Camborne," Anne smiles at him, "We shall merely send it on."

He nods, bows and withdraws, and she watches him walk away rather sadly. How could she have been so fooled by Thomas Seton? He had given not even the first hint of his duplicity - clearly a man of great talent and skill in more than merely the operation of an estate. What a waste…

The greatest irony of it all is that he put such effort into ensuring that his assistant also had the ability to look after her Lands as he had once done. In spite of everything, he has done her quite the favour.

The shock of Seton's sudden, brutal death now a brace of weeks behind her, Anne finds it in herself to smile. How he would _hate_ that.

She senses a presence behind her and turns to see William, "And so the exodus begins."

The smile wavers a little.

William does not answer, but instead enfolds her in his arms and allows her to rest her head upon his shoulder. Her love for her daughter has been at the core of Anne's very existence from the day the child came into the world, and he loves her for it. He has no doubt for a moment that there shall be many more visits between mother and daughter; but how is that a consolation when this departure approaches?

"Come, my Love. Let us to the bowling green, for my Lord of Richmond is well enough to participate, and has challenged the young bloods to best him."

Anne laughs, "If they think him to be a weak opponent, then they shall be sorely embarrassed; I recall his skill as a bowler in years gone by, and I am convinced he would not issue such a challenge had it diminished."

"Which is why his son has chosen to spectate." William adds, sharing her chuckle.

They make their way along the side of the lake to where the patch of ground set aside for less energetic sports has been rendered green again by careful watering. Elizabeth is already present, accompanied by Anna Conti and Lady Dudley; while, nearby Sir Robert is engaged in the first conversation he has had with Lord Richmond since a deeply embarrassed apology a week prior that settled accounts between them. Warwick and Lisle are talking to Northumberland, and their occasional glances in the direction of their youngest brother suggest that they are pleased to see that the unpleasant incident with the Estate's Steward has shaken Dudley out of his foolishness. Perhaps they might see that able Courtier after all.

"Mama, there you are!" Elizabeth looks up, delightedly, "I see the first wagons have departed safely. Come, be seated and we shall share the pleasure of age and experience besting youthful complacency!"

Anne curtseys as her husband bows beside her, then seats herself in the proffered chair and accepts a cup of cold mead cordial, "I recall his skill at bowls, my Majesty; they shall regret their boasting, I think."

His brush with death has quite revived Richmond's zest for life, and he seems almost able to abandon the chair that has been set for him alongside the bowling green. Leaning on only one stick today, he accepts Dudley's bow as his competitor, and permits the younger man to cast the jack.

Richmond's first bowl is wide, but Anne knows his tactics well, and smiles to herself at the expressions of those who have not seen him bowl before. What matters is the outcome as he builds his part of the head, not the start.

After six ends, those who smirked at that first cast are looking altogether more impressed, as Richmond has roundly trounced Dudley. A few weeks ago, such a defeat would certainly have elicited scowls; but now he smiles and enjoys the competition.

As the afternoon shadows begin to lengthen, Richmond has defeated all who come against him, and has now returned to his chair to rest accompanied by applause. The servers have come from the house with a wide array of light amusements and beverages for the assembled Court to enjoy, while Mr Camborne has handed a wrapped bundle to William, who nods as he takes it, then turns to catch the Queen's attention.

As she sees it, it is clear that she knows exactly what he carries, and she immediately bids him approach, "Thank you, my Lord Kent."

"Just arrived from London by fast horse, Majesty."

Elizabeth smiles, and rises, "Sir Robert Dudley, I bid you approach."

For the first time, he approaches without that tiresome air of pride that had so irked his brothers and father. All now know of his embarrassing calf-love for the Queen, and he would very much prefer not to add more grist to _that_ particular mill.

He bows, then looks startled as she bids him to kneel.

"Sir Robert Dudley, in recognition of your acts to rescue my mother from the brutal machinations of a traitor, and saving her, I wish it to be known that I am truly grateful for your honourable, worthy service to me as your queen.

"Thus, this day, I name you Lord Robert Dudley, Baron Denbigh. Had I the appropriate raiments to set upon you, I would do so; but they shall be granted to you when we are returned to Whitehall. It is, however, here that I wished to confer this Barony upon you - here where your act of heroism won my gratitude."

Dudley's mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, "Majesty, I am overcome…I thought never to win such favour after my past foolishness laid such a tarnish upon my service to you as a Courtier."

"That tarnish was polished away by your service to me in saving my mother." Elizabeth smiles at him, "I think it safe to say that the talent that it hid shall now shine as it does in your brothers; and I am glad of it."

She turns to William, who smiles and unwraps the bundle, "Your letters patent, my Lord."

There. It is official.

* * *

Supper this evening is in the great hall again, with various local worthies invited to sup in the presence of the Royal family. The Aldermen of both Maidstone and Sevenoaks have made the journey, and all of them are to be accommodated in pavilions out in the park before making their way home on the morrow.

The afternoon has been spent watching the younger bloods of the court displaying their riding prowess: racing, chasing a course over jumps and snatching pennants from stands at a gallop. As Leeds does not have a tiltyard, and no one brought armour, it is the best way that they can demonstrate their skills without jousting. Not that such a tourney is truly needed; Elizabeth is not her father, and does not appreciate the sport to the degree that Henry did.

Anne takes her time to examine the decorations and dressing of the tables. Trailed with fronds of ivy, and branches of fir, the crisp, white linens of the tablecloths and the ranks of pewter plates. Everything to her satisfaction, she smiles and returns to her dressing chamber to change.

Much as she has always enjoyed being well dressed, the days when she was a leader of fashion at Court are long gone, and she appreciates the freedom to assume a style of her own. Whatever she wears tonight will not be commented upon, considered, reviewed or copied. That pressure is upon Elizabeth now.

Her kirtle is a rich teal green, with an overgown of copper brocade. There is little in the way of ornamentation upon the fabric, and her jewels are carefully chosen to accent the outfit, rather than emphasise the glory of the woman who wears them. For a moment, she almost fancies that her dear Jane Wiltshire is behind her, fetching a hairbrush to complete the teasing of her hair into the curls that lie beneath the copper-wire hairnet; and she catches herself. Even now, the loss of her sister in law bites deeply, and she reaches for a silk kerchief to dab at the tears springing in her eyes. No - this will never do.

Instead, one of her maids performs the task, artfully and well. Examining herself in the polished steel of the mirror, Anne nods, "That is very well done. Thank you, Alice."

The maid bobs and sets to work tidying the cosmetics and hair ornaments away.

Dabbing a spot of her favourite perfume to each of her wrists, Anne turns to see William in the doorway, "Ah, a very vision of beauty."

"Sycophant." She smiles, approaching his open arms and accepting his embrace, "Come, let us entertain the finest men of Kent as they are dazzled by the presence of their queen."

The men of the council are talking amiably to various of the guests as the Kents arrive, and all bow as their arrival is announced. Above, in the gallery, the musicians play - augmented by the Queen's trumpeters, who will herald her arrival with raucous fanfares.

She smiles and crosses to the newly ennobled Robert Dudley, who is conversing with an older Alderman from Maidstone upon the merits of various breeds of horses, "Ah, Lord Dudley, I am sorry I could not be present at your ennoblement two days back - I am most grateful to you for your determination and courage in my favour."

He bows, this time with an almost humble air, "It was my honour to serve, my Lady. And also I am truly grateful to have retrieved my reputation from the tarnish of my own foolishness. I am only dismayed that I could not ensure that the matter ended other than it did."

She sighs, "That is the way that it is, my Lord. Nonetheless, I am truly grateful."

So obliquely put - but the Alderman does not know of Seton's horrible betrayal, or his equally horrible demise, and she wishes for him to remain ignorant.

In spite of the years that have passed since her departure from Court, Anne has not lost her skill as a hostess, and circulates amongst the guests as she used to do when Henry was her King and husband. The atmosphere is friendly and warm, until all turn at the sound of the Chamberlain's staff beating the flags of the stone floor, "My Lords! My Ladies! Her Majesty the Queen and her most Royal Consort!"

Immediately the trumpets shatter the air with a magnificent fanfare, and everyone drops into deep bows and curtseys as the royal couple enter.

Tonight being the crowning event of the Progress, she is magnificent in a kirtle of cloth of gold, embroidered with gold wire and glittering gems in the shape of flowers and mythical beasts. Her overgown is shining ivory silk with accents in yet more cloth of gold, ranks of seed pearls and the finest Flanders lace. Her jewels are a glorious array of gold, diamonds and garnets, roped around her waist, about her neck and dangling from her ears. To the Aldermen, who have never seen such finery, she is a goddess, and all are grateful to be present in order to offer worship to such a vision.

Beside her, Philip is resplendent in a doublet of equally well accented ivory silk, but even he seems quite dazzled by her. In spite of her own adoration, Anne smiles to herself at his expression. _Goodness, we are all idolaters this night_.

Anne's chaplain blesses the gathering prior to the arrival of the victuals, and then the first remove is trumpeted in. Great sides of beef, haunches of venison, saddles of boar, capons, stews and pies are set out upon the trestles, garnished with flower petals, sallets and great coffers of the finest manchet bread.

She cannot remember such a great display of meats since the days that Henry ruled - but Elizabeth is wise to the expectations of her guests, and the cost of this extraordinary remove has come from her coffers, rather than expecting her hosts to pay for it. Certainly the expressions upon the faces of the aldermen at such generosity towards them shall ensure a memorable occasion, and one that they shall speak of for years to come. The very picture of magnificent, royal largesse.

The second remove is also generous, though the dishes now are lighter - soups and broths, sallets and prettily decorated tarts of asparagus and forcemeat. Fishes set in calf's-foot jellies, roasted or broiled and served upon bushy mountains of watercress. Being one who has never indulged overmuch, Anne sups at one of the light broths, as do most of the ladies confined in stays, while the men serve themselves great portions of fish and tart, though some have clearly been obliged to set their knives aside.

Perhaps it is just as well that they shall be served the banquet outside.

* * *

The gardens are fragrant with the evening blooms as they begin to close for the night, while ranks of flares again stand ready to be ignited once the twilight has drawn in. Two fine chairs have been set beneath an awning, ready for the Queen and her Consort, while other seats for the senior lords, and benches for the remainder of the guests have also been set about an open space where a makeshift platform has been erected for the performance that is to accompany the inevitable grazing of delicacies from the banquet tables alongside the garden wall.

Taking her seat, Elizabeth smiles as Lady Dudley offers her a tray of fancies from the great array of victuals, and selects a small finger of aqua vitae, while the newly ennobled Baron Dudley performs the same service for Philip. Around them, guests are selecting morsels and carrying them to the benches to consume as they wish while gossiping, and servers cross back and forth with great flagons of hippocras to keep cups filled.

After a half hour of general chatter, the air is enlivened by the brazen rasp of a trumpet held to the lips of a garishly dressed individual who performs a fanfare of highly indifferent quality. From his garb, however, it is quite clear to all that the ghastly noise is quite deliberate, and the performance to follow is certainly to be of a comical bent.

A colourfully dressed individual emerges onto the platform, "Your most gracious and beloved Majesties! It is our greatest pleasure to present to you this poor play and hope, in your infinite mercy, that you shall find joy in it. God save you!" he bows floridly, and then backs - rather clumsily - to the rear of the platform before fleeing, much to the amusement of the royal couple.

The play that follows is a delightful comedy of an unwanted arranged marriage thwarted, while true love wins out through the application of deception, letters, confusion and amusing disguises as the Lady Violetta, the only heir of Sir George Richley, seeks to marry her beloved Aimwell rather than her intended betrothed, the foolish Sir Nicholas Treedle. Disguises are donned, letters are exchanged, identities are mistaken, and all turns out well in the end as Treedle finds himself wedded to Violetta's maidservant, Violetta marries for love and a rather wild young gentleman is reformed through the device of a false funeral of Violetta's love-struck cousin.

Elizabeth laughs delightedly as the actors assemble upon the platform, "I commend you all!" she calls, "My thanks to his Grace of Oxford for your performance this night - I shall engage you again, I think, this Christmastide!"

As she speaks, Anne is summoning one of her stewards, "Ensure that the players are well fed and watered for their efforts, John; her Majesty is most pleased, and good victuals are assuredly deserved before they depart to their lodgings."

She smiles instinctively as William's arm slips about her waist, "Most generous, my beloved; but then again, they have indeed delighted her Majesty, and I concur that their performance warrants it."

Anne turns to him, "When was the last time that I told you that I love you?"

His lips curl upwards slightly, "Oh…I think it has been at least a few hours since last you spoke such words to me."

She kisses him softly, "Then I shall amend it to be mere minutes from one utterance to the next."

Standing very, very close together, they turn back to the gathering, where now a rather handsome youth in sober garb is declaiming a sonnet to the accompaniment of a lute. It is a hymn to true love between man and wife, and Anne can see Elizabeth's hand gripping Philip's tightly as she follows each word with wrapt attention. Her smile is bittersweet, for her joy in her daughter's love for her husband is tempered by sadness in the knowledge that her own marriage to a king had not been marked by such simple tenderness.

_No_, she thinks to herself, _there was tenderness at the first_. He had chased her, sought her out, granted her no peace from his attentions - and she had adored it. But then he had caught her, and she discovered that what he had wanted was to claim her, rather than to love her. His desire had changed from a need to have her, to a need for her to grant him a son. Her failure to do so had killed whatever love he had had for her - if it had even been love at all - and it was only his death that had kept her safe from his vengeance.

What does it matter now? She has a loving husband, a daughter grown and safely married, and a warm, safe home in which to spend her days. With that same near-instinctiveness, she clasps his hand in hers, and rests her head upon his shoulder.

Once, she had called herself 'most happy', but it is only now that she truly knows that she is.

* * *

The coffers are packed, precious belongings have been set in chests and locked safely away for the journey to Knole. As she surveys the bedchamber in which she has slept over the last two months, Elizabeth sighs; it has been a joy to spend time with her mother again, but all good things must come to an end, it seems.

If only her stomach were not so disturbed; for the last two days, she has awoken in a state of abdominal discomfort that has obliged her to request the provision of a basin beside the bed, for she has not been able to prevent herself from vomiting. God's blood, it is all _too_ inconvenient.

A little sickly, she shifts, and leans toward that damned basin again, then swallows hard and sits back with relief as her stomach settles a little. Ginger root…yes, an infusion of ginger in wine should resolve this discomfort.

As she requests the infusion from Anna, the foremost of her ladies eyes her a little suspiciously, "Majesty, this has occurred daily for three days; should I summon a physician?"

"It is naught but a chill upon my stomach, Anna. I have endured such mortifications before; I shall survive."

Anna nods, then reddens a little, "Perhaps so, but…but if that is so, why is there no manifestation of looseness from…"

"_Thank_ you, Anna." Elizabeth interrupts her, also reddening at the description of so base a bodily function. She pales again, and reaches out rather hastily for the basin, which Anna holds for her as she leans forth and vomits.

"God's wounds," she says, wiping at her lips with a kerchief as Anna removes the basin and returns with a small finger of liqueur to remove the horrible taste of bile, "I have not been so sickened in years."

Anna, on the other hand, is looking at her with a rather wide eyed expression, "Not, perhaps for six years, Majesty?"

Elizabeth looks up, startled, as she also makes the connection, "Could it be so, Anna? Could I be with child again?"

"We shall ensure that you are provided with the attentions of a physician as soon as we arrive at Knole, Majesty."

In spite of her nausea, Elizabeth sits back against the pillows, and thinks back. How long ago was it that she and Filipe were driven into the grotto by the weather? Almost instinctively, she shivers inside with the memory of that blissful, lost afternoon. Perhaps it is true: in addition to that wondrous, quivering pleasure she had experienced at the touch of her beloved husband, she has conceived. Another heir to reside within the succession…another babe to love. Yes, please God let it be a child. Even now her arms ache with that hope of holding another babe in them.

The two women look up as Philip enters, having dressed, "Oh - again, my beloved? Perhaps we should summon a physician."

"We shall do so, Filipe," she answers, her eyes glistening, "once we are at Knole, I shall seek confirmation of that which both Anna, and I, suspect."

"Suspect?" Already his eyes are narrowing, "Suspect what?"

"That there is a babe within my womb, my dearest Filipe. That I am with child."

His eyes widen at once, with that dual expression of joy - and fear - that has graced his features upon each occasion that his wife has carried a child, but he hastens to her and grasps her hand, "I pray to God that it is so, and that we shall bring another babe into our family. My dearest, beloved wife and queen."

She leans into him, "Speak of this to no one, my dear husband, and my dear Anna. It is too soon to be sure, and I should not wish to raise hopes. Once I am certain of my state, we shall advise my mother, and then the Council. And then England."

"As you wish, my love." He kisses her tenderly upon the forehead.

* * *

It is hard for Anne to see the column assembling, as the horses are gathered for the Court to mount up. Biting her lip, she turns at the sound of two thumping sticks, and dredges up a smile as Richmond approaches her, "Ah, it is hard to say farewell, is it not, Lady Anne?"

Anne nods, and pauses, not able to trust herself to speak. Smiling, Richmond leans one of the sticks against his hip and takes her hand, "Her Majesty shall assuredly issue another invitation to attend Court at Christmastide - as she has done each year since you departed. Come to us - we shall be delighted to see you amongst us again."

"A glistening jewel, Richard?"

"_The_ glistening jewel." He chuckles, "As once you did when you were our Regent."

"I shall think upon it." She smiles at him, rather more brightly, "Though I fear that glistening might be somewhat beyond my art these days."

"Nay, Madame," He bows, as floridly as he can in so elderly a body, "A jewel never loses its sparkle, no matter how many years pass. I have yet to share a Primero table with one as skilled as you, and I miss the challenge."

"I shall await her Majesty's invitation with bated breath, my old friend - and accept it as soon as it is received. I give you my word." She pauses, and looks at him more closely, "I hope that you are well - I remain appalled that you were the victim of my former Steward's duplicity."

"I am recovered, my Lady," He answers, "though I am dismayed to accept that I shall be obliged to remain in the carriage for the entirety of the journey rather than attempt some of it upon horseback." He pauses, "That said, it was a fortuitous error upon Mr Seton's part, for it reconciled my son to me, and for that, I am grateful."

Anne presses a light kiss upon his cheek. He smiles, fumbles for his sticks, and makes his way to the carriage that shall convey him to Knole.

One by one, the Lords of the Court approach, bow and offer their thanks for their stay. Northumberland bows deeply, a legacy of his great respect for her in her time as Regent, while the three sons that came with him each take their leave, one after the other, though the new Baron Denbigh is particularly grateful, and she takes his hand in thanks for his rescue. Hackney receives a kiss upon the cheek, while those who follow also bow and offer their thanks before passing through the gatehouse to find their horses.

William is, again, holding her hand as the hardest moment comes. Hand in hand with her husband, her sons walking calmly to her rear and the Ladies and Gentlemen in waiting beyond, Elizabeth approaches her mother with the same rather bittersweet expression that Anne has no doubt graces her own face.

"Majesty." She curtseys deeply.

"Mama." Elizabeth clasps her hand and draws her back to her feet, "Thank you - thank you so much for your kind hospitality. I am so grateful for this time of peace and recreation away from the cares of my Crown - even if those cares sought to follow me here and cast a shadow in the sun."

"It has been the greatest of pleasures to welcome the Court to my home, my darling Elizabeth." There are few to witness their conversation, and she feels safe to be so informal, "I am glad that the threat upon the continent came to naught."

"I fear it is merely in abeyance, Mama." Elizabeth laughs, "And it shall, I have no doubt, rise again to dog England's heels before the leaves have fallen - but I am rested, and well, and shall face it as I have learned to do from your example. England shall not go to war, unless she must act in her own defence."

"I am glad of it," Anne smiles, "It seems that I did indeed teach you well." Her voice catches.

"Tears, Mama?" Elizabeth says, her own eyes brimming somewhat, "Fear not to shed them, as I do likewise; but we shall meet again, for you must come to us for Christmastide - I insist."

"There is no need to insist, my darling. For I have already resolved to do so. Had you not invited me, I should have invited myself."

"In which case, I shall see to the redecoration of your old Quarters at Placentia, for it is my intention to celebrate the season there. When you come, it shall be as though you were never away."

"I look forward to it."

They cannot put off that moment of departure any longer, and Elizabeth steps back to allow Philip and her sons to step forth to say their goodbyes.

"Look after her, Majesty," Anne says to Philip, softly, "Or I shall make you wish that you had."

He laughs at the twinkle in her eye, "I believe that you would too, my Lady. Fear not, I shall keep her safe and well, for I love her almost as much as you do."

Anne turns to the Princes, "Safe journey, my little Princes." She curtseys to them both.

"Thank you Grandmama." Edward bows in return, "I have enjoyed myself very much."

"And I am told that your riding has progressed so much that you are to ride to Knole!" Anne answers, "That is excellent news!"

Edward beams.

Henry also bows, "Thank you Grandmama." He bows.

"It has been a pleasure to have you here, my Prince." She advises him, solemnly, "I wish you a safe journey to Knole, too."

Nearby, one of the grooms has the two puppies they were gifted upon leashes, though they are now long-legged adolescent dogs that have been well trained and stand patiently, though their tails wag enthusiastically at the prospect of a journey to new territory.

"Thank you for the dogs, Mama," Elizabeth says, smiling at them, "They shall make excellent companions for the boys - as Castor and Pollux did for me."

"That was my thought." Suddenly Anne cannot stop herself, and clasps her daughter in her arms, "Go safely, my dearest, beloved darling Elizabeth. I shall be with you at Christmastide, but I am but a letter's delivery away, I promise you."

Elizabeth's tears are now on her cheeks, "I know it, Mama. Be well - and I look forward to your visit." Reluctantly, she disengages from Anne's embrace, then sets her hand upon Philip's arm as the two formally process out to the column to lead it away.

William sets his arm about Anne's shoulders as they make their way through the gatehouse and out to watch as the drummers begin, and the horses stir to life.

It is hard to watch her daughter go - after the time that she has spent under their roof; but she has promised to attend Court for Christmastide, and that is a pleasure to look forward to.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Anne stands up straight alongside her adored husband, and watches quietly as the column departs, staying until the last of the baggage wagons has disappeared from sight.

William turns to her, "And so we are at peace again."

"We are." She smiles, accepting his embrace, "Though I am already making plans for our journey at Christmastide."

"Of course." He smiles back, then kisses her, "Are you happy, my beloved?"

She looks into his eyes, "Most happy."

His arm tight about her waist, William strokes her cheek gently, and leads her back to the house.


End file.
